


this crumbling throne

by Pomfry



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, Hunter Noctis Lucis Caelum, M/M, MT Clones, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective Prompto Argentum, Social Media Influencer Prompto Argentum, Time Travel, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomfry/pseuds/Pomfry
Summary: Noctis wakes up fifteen years old again, a week before he starts high school. A week before he becomes friends with Prompto. A week before he begins to realize the weight upon his shoulders.He leaves, unable to bear the memories that come every time he opens his eyes. He spends the next three years running from what was, and what could be.(Prompto picks up the crumbs Noctis left behind, falling in love with the boy he once was, and the man he becomes. He spends the next three years chasing after him.)Written for the 2020 Promptis Big Bang
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 14
Kudos: 138
Collections: Promptis Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOOOO BOY MY FIRST BIG BANG!!!!!! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I'm so happy I got to work with such wonderful people! To my editor: thank you for dealing with my bullshit. To my artist: thank you for such an AWESOME piece to go along with it! I hope you enjoy!! Any and all spelling mistakes are mine!

Noctis wakes up. Ardyn’s face, wretched and hateful and daemonic, is all he can see, and Noctis squeezes his eyes shut, curling into a ball, hands pressed against his chest. Countless weapons, countless ancestors, and his body could only take so much. He was already almost dead by the time his dad had taken his own sword in hand.

His strike was the one that had hurt the most.

He digs his fingers into his arms, nails almost breaking the skin. He can still feel the weight of the Armiger pressed against his soul, the crown that was so heavy on his head. Gods but he wants to _scream,_ to cry, to run to the Crystal and pound his fists against it and demand answers. Hadn’t he suffered _enough?_ Hadn’t he paid the price, done his destiny, looked his friends in the eyes and said _Walk tall,_ and he hadn’t looked back, hadn’t dared, and—

( _Prompto,_ oh gods, Prompto, he’s so sorry)

—and now he’s back, back to a time where his father was alive and the Wall was up and the Astrals still slumbered and Niflheim was at their doorstep, bloodthirsty and greedy and all part of a bigger plan that they don’t even know existed.

He pulls his covers up until they go over his head. He doesn’t want to look. His apartment was destroyed when Insomnia fell; after the ten years of darkness he had looked to where it was and found nothing but rubble. Nothing but the eerie glow of a daemon.

But more than that, he doesn’t want to see the sun rising, its light turned purple and pink from the Wall. He sacrificed everything for the dawn and now that it’s here, now that he can see it, he doesn’t want to. And maybe it’s because he’s in the past, maybe it’s because it’s tainted by the Scourge, but he doesn’t have the strength to lift his head.

He doesn’t know what day it is. He doesn’t know what _age_ he is. His body is younger, his knee doesn’t ache as much, his back barely hurts, but that was how his body felt before he was twenty. He doesn’t feel like sleeping. He only wants to lay here. Perhaps he’ll wither away, unmoving and silent until his heart stops and he can finally get the peace he so desperately wanted.

He can still feel the Armiger slowly gnawing away at his life. The Axe of the Conqueror wore callouses into his hands that he knows still remain. He’s so _tired._ Why is he back here? Why did he return?

The door opens and he doesn’t move. “Noctis,” comes Ignis’ voice, and Noctis flinches. Ignis sounds at peace, if mildly annoyed, and it’s something he hasn’t heard in months, in years. He doesn’t want to look up and see Ignis’ young face, still unscarred, and so he doesn’t.

Ignis sighs. “Noctis, you must get up. You have a meeting at nine today.” He walks over and gently peels the blankets back. Noctis doesn’t open his eyes.

“It’s a bad day, Iggy,” he murmurs, and his voice is still so _young._ It’s not rough from screaming, not hoarse from him keeping back tears. It simply is, and Noctis hates it more than he expected.

Ignis pauses, looking at him. Noctis’ body is still so attuned to his gaze that he can feel it, even if he has his back to him. “...Noct?” he asks, sounding unsure. Noctis doesn’t answer but his shirt rides up on his back as he curls up tighter. “...I see. I can reschedule the meetings for today.”

“Please,” he whispers. Ignis lays a gentle hand on his head, brushing his hair away from his cheek.

“I can make pancakes.” His fingertips burn a brand into Noctis’ skin. “If you want.”

Noctis opens his eyes just enough that the picture of him and Ignis, twelve years old and laughing, is visible.

“No.”

He doesn’t want to eat food that he doesn’t deserve, and especially not food that was cooked by Ignis. He just—he wants to know _why he’s here._ Did he do something wrong? Did he not obey the prophecy? Were they not _satisfied_ with what he did?

Noctis has so many regrets. He should have fought sooner, should have gotten the royal arms before he was forced into it. Should have—

Ignis sits on the bed, gently tugging him up. Noctis goes willingly, because he could never deny Ignis anything, especially not now, when Ignis is still soft and steady instead of fierce and strong.

He’s settled into Ignis’ side, his advisor humming a tune as he mindlessly runs a gentle hand down his back. Noctis melts into it, relishing the simple peace. 

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Ignis starts, low but not cruel, “and I know you won’t tell me. Just…let me try to help.”

He can’t. How can he, when Noctis has the memories of another life, of the future packed away in his head? Ignis is so young, and maybe he’s not innocent, not entirely, but he’s practically a babe compared to the Ignis of the future, worn and tired. How can Ignis help, when he’s never felt the devastation of losing his home, when he’s never seen an Astral look down upon him and deem him unworthy.

Ignis pulls away, and Noctis makes a desperate sound, almost unconsciously, as he reaches for his advisor. Ignis stops. Laughs softly, batting away his seeking hands, and says, “I’m only going to make breakfast.”

He isn’t hungry. He isn’t _hungry,_ but this is how Ignis shows his love, shows his concern. He cooks. So Noctis drags himself out of bed, wrapping his arms around Ignis’ shoulders, and clings. Something settles in him at the contact, at _knowing_ that Ignis is safe, that he’s okay. 

"You're being awfully clingy," Ignis says lightly, a question hidden in the statement. Noctis rests his chin on his advisor's shoulder. He isn't sure of what he should say. He can't remember what he used to say back then—now. He can only say the things that come naturally now, ever aware of the weight to his words, the weariness that's bone-deep.

"I don't want to be alone." he replies, just as quiet as he's been all morning, but Ignis' muscles tense.

"You typically want me to leave you alone."

"I—" And all of a sudden Noctis remembers what he had been like at this age; sullen, disliking company…disliking _Ignis,_ if only for the way he served as a reminder for his impending responsibilities as king.

After everything—after _Altissia_ —Noctis can't even begin to imagine treating Ignis the way he _knows_ he did. He was a kid back then, angry at the world and more than ready to just _scream._ It hurt the people around him, then, and he didn't care.

"...I just want some company," he decides, and Ignis softens under his hands, turning from steel back to human.

"Well," Ignis murmurs as they pass the dining table, "I can certainly provide that."

"I know."

"Noctis, do let go so I can cook. I'm afraid that your hair being in the batter wouldn't provide the best taste."

Noctis laughs, slipping away. Ignis putters around the kitchen, humming happily, and Noctis watches him, fond and amused. The sunlight is coming through the windows and there's a sense of peace that he desperately clings to.

It hits like a punch to the gut, then, when he remembers the last time Ignis made pancakes for him. In Altissia, Ignis was delighted to finally have access to a fully stocked kitchen, and took full advantage of it. He cooked them lavish meals, each day a feast. And, one morning, Noctis woke up to the smell of fresh pancakes. There was a tall tower of them on the table and the others were eating them by the threes. And when Ignis saw him, sleepy and confused, he smiled and said, "I saved some for you."

Noctis grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles turn white. That was the day the ceremony began, the last day he saw Ignis with clear eyes and an unscarred face.

Suddenly, he doesn't want pancakes anymore.

"Noct?"

A hand comes down on his shoulder and Noctis flinches. Stumbles back. Hits a chair and nearly falls down, shaking as he stares up at Ignis. Ignis, who has his arm outstretched. Ignis, who looks afraid. Ignis, who would never harm him.

He feels the need to apologise, if only to make Ignis be on solid ground, and so he does, lowering his head and muttering, "Sorry."

"Don't be," Ignis says, as though it was by reflex. "I was the one who touched you. May I ask, though…why did you react like that?"

Noctis opens his mouth. Closes it. Turns his gaze to the floor and fidgets with the ends of his shirt, the sound of Ardyn's laughter echoing in his ears. He can't say anything; no matter how many times he tries to get something out—a lie, the truth, a reassurance—he feels like he's choking.

He can't say a word. Magic, he realizes in a flash, and fury fills him for all of a moment before it slips away. It makes sense for him to be unable to tell anyone of his take. Perhaps it's a blessing. Perhaps it's meant to be protection. Noctis hates it nonetheless.

Ignis, ever vigilant to his emotions, takes two steps forward and gently takes his hand. "I need some assistance," he says, and Noctis, like always, lets him lead.

* * *

There’s something rotten in the air, Noctis thinks. It may be the air pollution, it may be the war-weary attitude of the citizens, but it’s rotten.

He swings his legs over the edge of the roof, staring out on his city. The Citadel looms over Insomnia, a castle made of steel and glass. It aches to see it, unharmed and standing tall, the light glinting off the metal. Prompto always loved it.

_(“Noct, you sure this is okay?”_

_Noctis laughs, pulling his best friend up the steps. The sun is high in the sky, summer heat making their cheeks turn pink, but with Prompto with him he can’t even feel annoyed. “Yes, I’m sure. Dad said it’s okay, and even_ **_Iggy_ ** _vouched for you so it’s more than fine.”_

_Prompto bites his lip, looking uncertain as he gazes up at the Citadel. It’s intimidating, to be sure, but for Noctis it has only ever been home. He pokes Prompto in the stomach, grinning when he squeaks._

_“Listen, it’ll be fine. Plus, you’ll get to see my embarrassing bedroom.”_

_That, at least, makes Prompto brighten. “Did you really have glow in the dark stars on the ceiling?”_

_“Who told you that?” Noctis demands, outraged, but Prompto only chuckles, darting past him and to the door. Noctis runs after him, shouting playful threats all the while.)_

Noctis shakes his head. No, he can’t think of that. That Prompto—he’s gone. Noctis won’t ever be able to get him back.

He pulls his knees to his chest, feeling gutted. Prompto was his best friend, the only person he didn’t feel like a _prince_ with, and the loss of him is like having his heart torn out of his chest. Or having the Armiger slam into him as he sits on the throne.

He wants to go home. Not the Citadel, not his apartment. But on the road, the Regalia thrumming under him. A motel bed, Prompto chatting with him with the night sky outside their window. This—this isn’t home. It hasn’t been home since he woke up to find the world had gone to hell as he slept.

He glares at where he knows the Crystal is kept. He knows Bahamut is watching him. Waiting to see what he will do. Bahamut wasn’t ever asleep like the other Astrals. In the Crystal, Noctis could see the past and the present, the Light of the Crystal sinking into his bones and soul. There was no future, because the future is always changing, even with a prophecy, because nothing is infallible. But the Crystal had let him see what was happening in his dreams sometimes, maybe once every two years, and it had made him want to cry out, to offer himself in their stead.

Prompto always did tell him that he was too self-sacrificing.

Noctis’ breath catches in his throat, the serenity left over from his morning with Ignis dissipating like mist in the sun. He wants—gods, he wants Prompto with him. His Prompto, the one that knew him inside and out and loved him anyway. Not that the Prompto of this time isn’t bad—any version of Prompto is fantastic, but—

But he wants the Prompto that looked at the sky with him and called him _Noct._

“Hey.”

Noctis looks up, slightly startled to see Gladio behind him, hands shoved in his hoodie’s pockets. It was even more startling to see him without the scar across his eye. That hasn’t happened yet, he realizes. That happened when he was seventeen and heading to the arcade with Prompto.

Two years from now, and over a decade into the past. He hates time travel.

“Hey,” he replies, scooting slightly to the right. Gladio takes the unspoken invitation, sitting down beside him. They don’t speak for a long time, just watching people on the street below. They look like ants, but Noctis cares for every one of them. They are his people, even if they’re the ones he failed countless times before. He knows that, back then, _now,_ he didn’t see them like that. He saw the kingdom as a whole as a burden, a domain under the rule of a crumbling throne. But now…

Noctis saw the people starved, worn down, pale and tired and still so _hopeful_ for the return of the dawn. Those who would never have joined the Kingsglaive did, because what else could they do in a world of daemons and monsters? What else could they do except grasp every advantage they could get?

Ten years is a long time. It’s even longer without the sun.

“Ignis is worried,” Gladio says. He doesn’t look over at him. “You were fine yesterday. Excited for the school year.”

Noctis shrugs. “I’m not today.” He hesitates. Looks down. “Hey, Gladio? How long are the nights now?”

Gladio hums, leaning back on his hands. “About nine and a half hours.”

That’s more than a quarter of the day just—gone. Almost ten hours, even, and it makes Noctis shudder. Ten, ten, ten—ten years spent in darkness, ten years spent in the Crystal. Ten years of death and daemons and children growing up without knowing what the day looked like.

Eleven hours. By the time he left Insomnia, it had been eleven hours. And it had just gotten worse and worse until Ignis drove in the dark more often than not, only safe by the headlights.

Noctis can taste daemon blood on his tongue. 

“Oh,” he manages, and closes his eyes. “Okay.”

“Why?” Gladio pokes him in the shoulder. “Oi, don’t ignore me.”

“I’m not,” Noctis snaps back, too sharp, too mean for this time, and he immediately regrets it when Gladio flinches back. “I mean—I’m—“

“Noct.” Gladio’s voice is slow and wary. “Is…everything okay?”

No, he wants to cry, to scream. No, nothing is okay, because he should be dead, because he should be thirty, because he should have Prompto by his side. Nothing is okay, and he isn’t sure if it’ll be okay again.

“Yes,” he replies. “I’m fine.”

Gladio slants him an unimpressed look. "Don't even try to lie. You forget that I know you."

"I'm _fine,"_ Noctis says again, more insistent this time, and he can see the moment Gladio decides not to push it. He and Ignis used to hold little conferences that Noctis pretended not to know about and they will be theorizing over his behavior. He isn't sure what they will think, or what they will say, and it—kills him. It didn't bother him at this age, but now—now, when he is fifteen going on thirty, it bothers him.

"I just. It's nothing, I'm just having a bad day."

"First day jitters?" Gladio asks, now amused. "You've never had those before."

“I did when I started school,” he says. “And—and when I was formally introduced to the Council.”

“You were a kid then.” Gladio squints at the sun. “I mean, you’re fifteen now, right? What’s the difference between middle school and high school.”

Noctis blinks. “...Right, you were homeschooled.”

“Had to be,” Gladio agrees. “I mean, I started being your Shield when I should’ve been in school. Best tutors around.”

“Not including Iggy.”

“Not including Iggy. But still. Public school? It’s never been a thing I’ve gone through.”

“Okay,” Noctis says, “first of all, it’s private. There’s scholarships and everything. Second of all, it’s different. Everyone changes over summer _somehow,_ and it’s usually for the worse. They get big heads and everything.”

“Oh, so like you?”

Noctis punches him in the arm for that. “Shut up. They’re _worse_ than me. Seriously, the girls start their cliques and the gossip is _vicious_ because they’re all stupid teenagers, and the boys are either cocky about their places on the sports team, jealous of the guys who have girlfriends, or, again, _stupid.”_

“You act as though you’re any different.” Gladio teases, and Noctis huffs. He wasn’t any different back then but he likes to think he’s matured since then. But then his Shield frowns that concerned frown he gave to Iris when she was being particularly rebellious, and says, stilted and uncertain, “...Do you still see yourself as—different from other kids your age?”

Yes. Noctis does, but not for the reason Gladio thinks. Back then—now—he set himself apart. For good reason, he felt at the time. His dad was dying, more responsibilities were being put on his shoulders, and he didn’t want to talk to people he likely wouldn’t interact with again. Now it’s because he’s fifteen going on thirty and he’s _tired._ He doesn’t have the energy to talk to teenagers _,_ much less _spoiled_ teenagers.

“Noct, you have to stop that. How are you supposed to be a good King if you don’t know your people?”

Anger bubbles behind his rib cage, hot and dripping like tar, and he gets ready to rip into his Shield the way they did to each other on the way to Altissia, to Tenebrae, to Gralea, when the door opens. It makes him blink. Settle down, realize just when he is, and that Gladio’s words only came out of a place of worry. Not anger, not displaced aggression. Simple worry over how he will be as King, and Noctis takes a breath. Takes a moment to calm down, then turns to where Ignis is staring at them both.

“Yeah?” he asks when it’s clear that he won’t say anything until Noctis himself asks. 

“Your father wants to see you,” Ignis says, and it’s like the ground falls out from under his feet.

His Majesty. King. Regis. _Dad._

“I see,” he says quietly. To his ears, he sounds as though he’s underwater. "I'll be down there soon.”

* * *

The Citadel is the same as always. Looming, made of steel and glass, and yet—home. Even in the eternal night, surrounded by daemons and Ardyn’s red magic, it was still _home._

Noctis stops at the bottom of the stairs, tilting his head back to stare up at it. Before, the courtyard was in ruins. Ifrit's rampage had destroyed it completely, what was left after ten years turned to dust. The gold statues around the fountain had melted, unable to handle the divine heat, and it—hurts, suddenly, to see that gone. To see what he and Prompto and Gladio and Ignis had gone through, _fought_ through, gone.

The windows aren't shattered. There's no cracks in the foundations. There's nothing to show the wear and tear of time, and the Citadel is as ageless and flawless as always.

Noctis can't _breathe._

_("Hey, Noct?"_

_Noctis looks up with a blink, not expecting the sudden question. "Yeah?"_

_"You know I'd never leave you…right?" Prompto crosses his arms, leaning against the stone wall of a safehouse. The Kingsglaive uniform fits him, sure, but it doesn't sit right. There's places where it sags, where starvation kept muscles from forming. It doesn't look right. It doesn't look_ **_okay,_ ** _and Noctis hates that he can't do anything to help it but die._

_"Yeah. Why? What brought this up?"_

_Prompto shifts on his feet. "...Nothing. Come on, we need to get to the Citadel."_

_"Come on, tell me."_

_"You already know what I meant. Ever at your side." Prompto fixes a burning look on him, face pale and drawn and Noctis knows that he won't—can't—ask anything else. Not when Prompto's heart is going to break by sunrise._

_"Right.")_

"Prince Noctis? Your Highness?"

A hand touches the small of his back and Noctis flinches, stepping away. Drautos stares at him in dismay, concern in his eyes, and Noctis—remembers the way he'd entrusted his dad to this man. Remembers the way Drautos had inclined his head, bemusement on his face as Noctis had walked away, and wonders what happened to him when Insomnia fell. Was he out there with the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard, fighting for their city? Was he at his King's side, protecting him until his last breath? He doesn't know, and Noctis wonders why he'd never asked.

"Are you okay, Your Highness?" Drautos asks. His voice is a welcome relief, same as his face, even if it aches. He'd forgotten what he sounded like, looked like, but the grief is an old thing. Not new.

"I'm fine," he murmurs. "Thanks, though. Where's Dad?"

"In his office." Drautos waves a hand at a Kingsglaive who had been standing guard. "Ulric will take you."

"I know where my dad's office is," Noctis huffs, and Nyx Ulric gives him a wry grin.

"Yeah, but Captain is a worry-wart. Don't worry about it."

Noctis gives him a searching glance, remembering a cheerful and talented Kingsglaive who—probably didn't survive the Fall. It sucks that someone as vibrant as Nyx had died but…a lot of people didn't survive. Still, Nyx is handsome, and someone he remembers Dad mentioning on occasion, and he knows he's loyal to a fault. For Hearth and Home.

_("What does that mean?"_

_Dad smiles at him, eyes warm. "It means that they love their family and home so much that they'll fight to protect it."_

_Noctis perks up, little body straining forward in his wheelchair. Sylleblossoms are outside the window, a whole field of them, and normally he would be begging to go outside with Luna but right now he's more interested in what his dad's saying._

_"Like you?"_

_Dad's smile becomes strained. "...Yes. Like me."_

_"I'll become so strong nobody will ever need the Wall again!" Noctis declares, and Dad sighs, reaching out to smooth over his hair._

_"I'm sure you will. Now go play with Luna—it's almost time for your Healing."_

_"Ugh. That always makes me sleepy."_

_"I'm sure you'll survive. Go on.")_

"I know," he says again as he walks forward. "Still, I'm not a kid."

"Ah, but you are a kid—at least to them." Nyx laughs, a step behind him and arms at parade rest. "You'll become an adult when you can handle your liquor."

"Who even says liquor?" Noctis rolls his eyes but Nyx only laughs again.

"You'd be surprised, Your Highness. Into the elevator, please." Nyx presses the button for the thirtieth floor. “Captain said that you’re gloomy but I don’t see it.”

“Gee, thanks.” Noctis snorts. “I heard that you had a bit of an attitude problem.”

“Aw, that’s not nice.”

“Life isn’t nice.”

_“Rumors_ aren’t nice,” he corrects. “Lesson I learned in high school.”

“Not middle school?” Noctis asks, lowering his head to hide a small smile. He never knew Nyx was so funny. He didn’t really pay attention back then.

_“Hell_ no," Nyx says with surprising vehemence. "High school is full of vultures who will cry for their parents if you hit them. At least in middle school you could throw a punch."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Nyx nods firmly. "You wouldn't believe how many times Lib and I got into fights. Bunch of pansies, all the city folk—"

He freezes, blood draining from his face, and Noctis sighs quietly. He hates it when people— _his_ people, even if people inside Insomnia think that way—think they can talk to him. Even if Nyx is in the service of the crown, that doesn't mean that he should fear talking badly of those who live in the Crown City.

"Nyx, it's okay." He lays a hand on his arm, gentle despite the storm raging in his chest. "Listen, I'm not gonna, like, fire you cause you have opinions. What kind of prince would do that?"

Instead of relaxing, Nyx only tenses further. "I—how did you know my name? Captain only introduced me as Ulric." 

Noctis bites his lip, conflicted. He can't exactly say _I know your name because Dad mentions you three years from now_ and he isn't a liar. Not a particularly good one, anyway.

"I know the names of people who go above and beyond in their service," he offers, and it's the truth but it's not. It's the best he can give, though, so it will have to be enough.

Nyx gives a half grimace, half smile, but doesn’t really, and by the time they reach Dad’s office the silence between them has progressed from awkward to excruciating. Cor is waiting for them outside the elevator. Noctis breathes quiet sigh of relief, stepping onto the spotless tile and relaxing when Cor gives him a glance. Cor, even when he was thirty and ready to die, seemed invincible, and had this air around him that meant Noctis could relax, if just a little bit.

“Thank you, Ulric,” Cor says stiffly, arms folded behind him. “You may go back to your post now.”

Nyx bows, first to Cor, then to Noctis. “Of course, sir. Your Highness.” The elevator doors close on his face and Noctis pauses. Turns to Cor, who is giving him the most skeptical look he’s ever received since Ignis, and turns a light pink.

“So,” Cor drawls, dry as the dust in Leide, “mind telling me why one of the more unshakeable Kingsglaive rookies seemed so disturbed he didn’t dare look you in the eyes?”

Noctis chuckles nervously. “Dunno. And—wait, Kingsglaive rookie?”

Cor tilts his head. “He was sent on his first mission without senior Kingsglaive a month ago. We’re still seeing whether or not he can go on another one.”

Noctis’ mouth goes dry. “Ah. Okay.”

He should’ve known. Nyx was only twenty-one right now, in his first year of being a Kingslgaive. He’s had no opportunities to prove himself beyond a rookie who has a rare affinity for magic. And yet Noctis had treated him as the decorated and experienced Kingsglaive he is—was—will be.

He needs to get better at separating the future from the past. The present from the what-ifs.

…He doesn’t know how to do that without an anchor. But he must, because—because—

Because if he wants to change anything, then he must get better. The idea of knowing what he does—of having _lived through_ what is to come and not doing anything is unfathomable. Unmentionable.

He just…doesn't know how to change things—alter _destiny—_ without leaving. And. That's a thought. Most of what happens is outside the Wall, outside of Insomnia, and if he left then it would be—not easier, exactly, but less agonizing to see. If he stayed and watched his friends grow up, watched his dad slowly wither away because of that fucking ring, if he saw Prompto _bleed again and again and again and laugh it off even as his smile is pained and he can barely move as a daemon charges at him, Noctis unable to do anything but_ **_scream_ ** _—_

If he stayed then he would go insane. Noctis always did hate doing things twice.

"Prince Noctis?" Cor's hand lands on his shoulder and Noctis flinches back. They stare at each other for a moment, Noctis struggling to breathe past the memories of _blood-death-rage_ and Cor narrowing his eyes.

Noctis digs his nails into his wrist and smiles thinly. "Yeah?"

"We're here." Cor inclines his head to the wooden doors that loom overhead. Noctis licks his lips, feeling like he's going to his death again, steps forward, and knocks.

"Come in," calls a voice, and the doors open under a simple push. Noctis steps inside, eyes locked on the large desk in the middle of the room. And—

And Dad looks up with a small smile. His hair is only silver at the temples, the lines around his eyes not so severe, and the cane isn't anywhere in the room. It wouldn't be, Noctis thinks faintly. He didn't start using the cane until Noctis was seventeen. That's two years away.

"Noctis," Dad says warmly, standing, and the knee brace isn't on. He only put it on when he was going to be walking a lot when Noctis was fifteen.

He feels like he's going to throw up. Last time Noctis saw him, he was hanging from chains in the throne room, blood staining his clothes, pale in death and his eyes were open, staring staring _staring—_

“Hey, Dad,” he manages. "How's it going?"

Dad stops, giving him a worried look. "Nothing much," he says carefully. "I simply called you in to talk over what will be expected of you when the school year begins."

Noctis knows. He remembers this. It was the typical _your grades must remain high and you must remain on top of your court duties._ Something that he ignored because he didn't need to know that, because he had been doing it for years, but—

"However, I think that can wait." Dad places a hand on his shoulder and all of a sudden Noctis feels like he's six again and sitting in the Regalia as they drive around the city. His legs weaken, an old, familiar ache spreading from his knee, and Cor grabs his elbow to keep him from collapsing to the floor. Dad, expression alarmed, hurriedly guides him to the soft, overstuffed chair he used to fall asleep in, and carefully kneels before him. He winces he does, the movement stiff, and Noctis takes in a shuddering breath.

He remembers that. He _remembers_ and he can't separate the past from the present, the ache in his knee pulsing in sympathy. He grips his father's suit like he's eight, like he's hurting and screaming, and Dad wraps his arms around him as easily as he did when Noctis was eighteen and crying.

Noctis was as tall as him when he was thirty. He wouldn't have been able to tuck his face into his shoulder. The thought makes him shake, and Dad starts to hum a quiet melody, one that put him to sleep when he was five. And all of a sudden, something clicks. He can't stay here.

He's going to leave.

And the tears dry. Noctis takes a breath, a moment to steady himself, and starts to plan as Cor and his father start to fuss over him. Ignis did the planning, does the planning, will do the planning, but Noctis was born and raised to be a ruler. He can think in the long-term even if he doesn't want to.

Noctis maps out his actions with the calm enforced upon by the Crystal and Bahamut, and prepares to wait out the way Dad will keep him close for as long as he can. It's okay. He waited ten years. He can wait a couple hours more.

* * *

It's ridiculously easy, in the end, to set things up. He trades his brand new PlayStation with all of his games for a beat down old truck. He withdraws money from his account discreetly, in small, frequent amounts so that it looks like he's just blowing it on stupid things like he did the first time. It's a week until school starts and he has to get this done.

"Thanks," he tells the lady behind the counter with a smile. She nods back at him, mind clearly on autopilot, and Noctis knows that with a few changes to his face he's near unrecognizable. Nobody will be able to tell he went here—at least, not at first. He's gone to several different exchange buildings. Crown Coins into Gil, and he has a lot of money stuffed in envelopes and in a small satchel as a result. One Crown Coin equals ten Gil, and Noctis had a _lot_ in his account.

Almost everything is ready. He has clothes bought from a superstore stuffed in several duffel bags, a truck ready to be picked up outside the city, and his Armiger is stocked full of weapons he took from the armory. He's as ready as he's going to get, but—there's something he needs to do. Something he needs to check in on.

Or rather, someone.

The way to Prompto's house is so well known that he starts going that way automatically. He ditched the Crownsguard detail three blocks back, and now he's walking down a suburban street, eyes to the ground and hood up. He looks like a delinquent, or a thug, and he knows this, but he can't risk someone recognizing him and finding out who he's really here for.

( _"It isn't much, but it's home!" Prompto says cheerfully as he opens the door. It's too cheerful, his grin forced, and Noctis wonders why he even insisted on coming here._

_"Prom…"_

_His best friend doesn't seem to hear him, setting his backpack down on the table and walking over to the kitchen. He's still too casual. "Hey, want some pizza?"_

_Noctis grabs his elbow, gentle despite the strength he's using, and says, "Prompto, I don't care where you live. It's you I care about."_

_Prompto takes a breath, and it shakes. It shudders as it enters his lungs, and Noctis steps closer, willing him to understand. "Noct…"_

_Noctis smiles at him and adds, "And, yes, I want pizza."_

_Prompto bursts out laughing, which is why he said it. He's not even hungry. "Way to kill the mood, dude!"_ )

Prompto's house is the second to the last one on the right side of the street, and the lights are on. Noctis palms a dagger and warps to a nearby rooftop. Prompto is dancing in his room, singing some pop song that's blaring on the radio, and Noctis puts a hand over his heart as he almost keels over.

( _"Hey, Noct, you gotta listen to this!"_

_Noctis groans. "Prompto, you showed me it five times already."_

_Prompto gives him a pleading look, eyes wide and shining, and Noctis sighs. Holding out his hand, he says, "Okay. Give me the earbuds."_

_Prompto cheers, slapping them into his palm, and Noctis can only shake his head. He gives in way too easily.)_

How long ago was that? Four years? No. Fourteen? Yes. But it hasn't even happened yet, and it never will again.

It's about eleven-thirty at night, which means that Prompto should be getting ready for bed—not that he'll be going to sleep any time soon. Noctis pulls his knees to his chest, watching as his best friend, as the most important person in his life, turns on his camera to see what photos he took today. It's a cheap camera, one that can't give him the high quality shots he loves, and Noctis remembers, then, that he's the one who gave him that camera. It's not even out yet, but there's one that's almost as good on the market, and—

Before he can think better, he pulls out his phone and orders it. Fujifilm X-Pro2, compared to the Lucis PRO3, but—anything would be better than the camera Prompto has right now. He turns off his phone right after ordering it, driving a dagger through it. The Kingsglaive should be here at any moment, alerted from him using his phone, and Noctis has to leave. He has to, he _needs_ to, because if he sees Prompto's face he won't ever leave.

He doesn't move, not until Prompto shuts the curtains. The sparks of warping are nearby, and Noctis slips down from the roof, landing quietly on the concrete. It's time to go.

A Kingsglaive shouts when they see his phone, ordering Crownsguard and other Kingsglaive to fan out and search for him. But they'll be looking on the rooftops, not on the ground, so Noctis simply leaves. He's careful not to get noticed, of course, but—it's easy.

He reaches the park where he hid his bags, and he takes them down. A part of the Wall is nearby, and Noctis takes a breath, then another. He pulls a sword out of the Armiger and _warps._

It takes a couple warps to get to the top, but that's fine. He stops at the top, looking over his city, his _home,_ and wonders again why he's here. Why he was brought back. Bahamut never told him, never spoke to him beyond what he said in the Crystal, but Noctis got the impression that he was old and so very tired. He shakes his head at the Citadel and jumps down, sliding down the Wall, and warping near the end to make sure he doesn't break something.

It's midnight and school begins in eight hours. Noctis is already gone by the time the sun rises.

* * *

Prompto wakes up to someone knocking on his door. Frowning, he checks his phone and narrows his eyes. He fell asleep thirty minutes ago—whoever is at his door _better_ have a good reason for this.

By the time he’s made his way downstairs, the knocking has turned into a pounding. He jerks the door open and growls out, _“What do you want?”_

Cor Leonis stares back at him, unimpressed, with two teenagers flanking him. Prompto’s mouth dries as he looks at the ground in mortification. Cor crosses his arms. “Mind if we come on?”

Prompto thinks of the magazines on cameras that he left on the table and the dishes still in the sink and how he undoubtedly has drool on his face, but he nods. Steps aside. Says, “No. Come on in. What’s going on?”

The teenager with glasses scans the living room, tense and unhappy, and the other one leans against the wall, mouth in a tight line. Prompto isn’t really sure of what to do with himself at the moment, so he fusses with the bottom of his ratty t-shirt he only wears to bed, and tries not to freak the hell out.

“Have you…interacted with the prince recently?” Cor asks after a moment of painful silence, and—what?

“No,” he says truthfully. “I haven’t talked to him since we were kids, and even then we never really, like, talked. It was mainly me trying not to make an embarrassment of myself.”

“You are the only one who has any possible connections to—to Noct,” Glasses says in a rush, and he’s angry, although Prompto has no idea what he’s even upset about.

“Easy, Iggy,” Muscles murmurs, and Glasses (Iggy?) closes his eyes.

“Yes. I apologize.” He shakes himself then straightens up. “Mr. Argentum, Prince Noctis has been sighted in this area. There are traces of magic on a rooftop nearby. The _prince’s_ magic.”

Prompto shakes his head. “Afraid I can’t help you there, dude. I was planning to talk to him tomorrow at school, kind of like a reintroduction, but...I don’t know why he would be here.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Muscles says sharply. “Nobody else in this neighborhood has any conceivable reason for why Noct would be here. You’re the only one.”

Prompto refuses to be intimidated. “Yeah, and? I don’t know anything. You are the ones who showed up here and started accusing me of things that I had no part in!”

“Prince Noctis’ account was charged for a new camera,” Cor says, and it’s flat. Prompto glances at the magazines and shrugs. Cor sighs, just slightly. “It is a very expensive camera, and the address given was here. It was the last thing His Highness did on his phone. It was destroyed shortly thereafter.”

Prompto’s eyes widened. “What?” He puts a hand to his head. “No, wait. What? His Highness doesn’t even know my name, how could he know where I lived? That I had my eye on a new camera?” He reaches out to steady himself on the arm of the couch. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Iggy agrees grimly. “He stayed here for about thirty minutes, then ordered the camera. Once the Kingsglaive got the alert about his phone, it was stabbed through. We have to assume that he did it for you. He came here for you, he bought that camera for you—you are our biggest lead.”

“Shit, yeah, okay, um. Is there anything I can do?” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to make his tired mind cooperate. If he just had one piece of information he could give them— 

“You could come with us to the Citadel,” Muscles says, flat and severe, and Prompto pales.

“What?”

“It would be…better if you came to the Citadel,” Cor replies. “We don’t know what brought Prince Noctis here. There could be a danger that we don’t know about, and you would be better protected there.”

“Fuck,” Prompto mutters, then shakes his head in mortification. “Alright, I guess. Let me go change, I guess? Gather my things for school?”

“You won’t be going to school in the morning,” Iggy says swiftly. “You will have tutors to keep you on track, but going to the public school both you and Noct were going to attend is practically asking for you to be attacked. For now, it would be better if you just stayed at the Citadel.”

What the _fuck_ had even gotten through all the protections layered on the prince? What even brought Prompto to their attention? He wasn’t anything special; he was just a Niflheim immigrant adopted by traveling entrepreneurs, and he knew that there were others like him. Could it be—

Knowing his luck, it absolutely is. Lady Lunafreya’s letter to him, no matter how long ago it was, and no matter the fact that he never showed anyone it, could be the reason why Prompto was dragged into this, why the _prince_ was dragged into this. Everyone knows Prince Noctis and Lady Lunafreya getting married is only a matter of time, or even just that it’s a case of star-crossed lovers, but who knew it would be enough to make the prince do something so—so reckless? Then again, he always did read that love makes people to stupid things.

(It hurts, a little bit, when he thinks of Prince Noctis putting him in danger, but…he doesn’t think it fits, not with what he’s seen of the prince over the years. Something else is happening, and he doesn’t know why anyone else can see it.) 

“Okay,” he says. “My phone is upstairs, if I can grab it real quick. It won’t take long, and it even has the nifty universal charger.”

When they nod, he scampers upstairs and jerks his dresser drawer open, Lady Lunafreya’s letter still safe inside. He grabs it and uses a matchstick to set it on fire. As much as it pains him to do so, he knows it’s for the best—at least, he hopes it is. He’s kinda destroying the most precious thing he owns, so it better be worth it. Once the letter has burned down to cinders, he sweeps them into the trash bin by his desk, grabs his phone and camera, and hurries back to where the impressively intimidating Royal Guards are looming at his door, Cor Leonis leading the charge.

Prompto gives him a smile, raises his phone and camera, and says lightly, “Sorry! Couldn’t find my camera!”

A man in a Kingsglaive uniform gives him a flat stare, but Prompto absolutely refuses to let someone try to make him nervous with a stare in his own home, so he shoves his feet into his ratty old tennis shoes and follows them. Cor walks right to a car that looks both expensive and bulletproof, and Iggy and Muscles get in after him. Prompto dithers for a moment, unsure of where to go considering there’s three cars parked on his street, but Muscles shouts, “Argentum! Get in here!” which solves his small crisis quite nicely. He gets into the backseat, closes the door behind him, and tries to decide what the hell he’s gonna do when he gets to the Citadel, the very heart of Insomnia. Oh, dammit. Is he going to meet the king? In basketball shorts and a shirt that reaches the middle of his thighs?

Cor snaps out, “Call Clarus.”

_“Calling Clarus.”_

A man picks up immediately, not even giving the first ring time to finish, and demands, “What did you find, Cor? Regis is out of his mind with worry. He’s gonna ruin his knee again.”

Cor rolls his eyes, which Prompto can only see because of the rearview mirror. “I didn’t find Prince Noctis, if that’s what you're asking. I did find the last place he went to, and who he went to see, though. We’re headed back to the Citadel now.”

“Hurry,” the man who could only possibly be Clarus, Shield to the king, groans. “He’s refusing to stop warping.”

“I’m not the one he’ll listen to,” Cor replies, smug as can be, and then hangs up. Prompto glances out the window, trying not to think of just what caused Prince Noctis to flee Insomnia, and fails pretty miserably. There’s a lot of possibilities, each worse than the last, and he doesn’t even notice they’ve arrived until Iggy is tapping his shoulder. Shaking himself, Prompto gets out of the car and is lead—dragged, more like, but they’re worried and so he can forgive them just this once—to a meeting room on the first floor, where, yet again, he is subjected to judging stares and the general feeling of _you are not welcome here._

Iggy gives them a sharp glance, waving Prompto over. He goes gratefully, sitting tentatively on a chair next to him and watching as people in very official uniforms file in, ending with, oh gods, the king.

King Regis looks awful, Prompto thinks. His clothes are rumpled, face tight and drawn, his skin pale and hands shaking. His man who could only be Clarus Amicitia guides him to the chair at the head of the table, and sits down to the right of him, Cor to the left, and Prompto abruptly realizes that he’s about three chairs away from the king of the country he lives in. Holy shit.

“What do we know?” King Regis asks wearily. “Please, don’t try to make it easier for me. I am here not only as his father, but as the leader of this nation. I need to know every detail.”

Iggy clears his throat, the sound of it loud in the quiet. Prompto shifts next to him as he says, “Your Majesty, we found where he was last.”

King Regis focuses all of his attention on them, and Prompto is uncomfortably aware of the fact that he is in his pajamas. “Is that why this young man is here, Ignis?”

Iggy—Ignis, apparently—nods. “Prince Noctis made his way to his neighborhood and stayed there for half an hour. He then used his phone to order a camera to be sent to Prompto Argentum’s home, and left after destroying it.”

The king switches his gaze to Prompto. “You are Prompto Argentum?”

Prompto nods. “Yes, uh, Your Majesty.”

“Do you have any idea of why my son was near you?”

Prompto can only give a helpless shrug. “Afraid not. I haven’t talked to the prince in years.”

King Regis frowns, the expression making the lines on his face more severe. “What else do we know. Gladiolus?”

Muscles leans forward, clasping his hands together on the table. “Prince Noctis was acting strangely for about a week. He made multiple withdrawals from his banking account, but they were all in quantities that could be explained away by him purchasing items such as games or clothes. His Playstation is gone from his apartment, as are several weapons from the armory. He appears to have been planning this for a period of time. We don’t know what caused him to do so.”

Ignis lowers his head. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I did not notice his behavioral changes. I simply thought that he was nervous about moving out of the Citadel and beginning school.”

King Regis shakes his head. “We are all at fault in that, Ignis. We did not think to look deeper, and that is our loss. But now we must think of every angle.”

Prompto fidgets, wringing his hands together before hesitantly clearing his throat. “Um. Your Majesty? I—this doesn’t seem…in character, I guess? Prince Noctis always appeared to me as someone who wouldn’t take this many precautions. I think that maybe someone was giving him instructions? Or suggestions, at least. I mean, why would he leave? Maybe—maybe Niflheim got to him, maybe?”

Clarus’ expression darkens. “Are you suggesting we have a traitor amongst our ranks?”

Prompto bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he says helplessly. “But there’s something off about this. Why would he buy me a camera? Why would he take the money out of his account? I just—something’s not right. So something must’ve happened, or someone said something. Maybe it involved Lady Lunafreya?”

Captain Drautos leans back in his chair, looking at him with calculating eyes. “You seem to have a lot of detail surrounding this.”

Prompto falls silent as the implications settle on his shoulders and the room fills with murmurs. Cor frowns. “Mr. Argentum has gone through multiple background checks. He was adopted when he was one year old and has never left Insomnia. There is no possible way for him to have orchestrated this. We have confirmed that Prince Noctis never went near his house, not near enough for them to talk.”

Prompto nods. “I didn’t even know he was there until they woke me up.”

Captain Drautos’s lips twitch down, a bare whisper of a frown, and King Regis holds up a hand for silence. “There is no point to us suspecting each other. We must focus on the facts. Did he go anywhere else?”

Cor sighs. “We don’t know. He didn’t warp down from the roof, and—”

“Wait—what if he warped after he left the neighborhood?” Prompto interrupts, eyes widening as a metaphorical light bulb goes off in his head. “Like, he knew you guys would be looking for him so he didn’t use magic until he was out of your patrol areas?” He sinks into his chair, eyes unfocusing. “He withdrew money from his account, he probably sold his Playstation, he went to a place no one would suspect him to go…is it possible that he left the city?”

Ignis’ eyes widen. “Instead of hiding, he just left?”

“The fact that he bought me a camera…I dunno, it sort of screams goodbye to me. Like, he thinks he won’t be able to come back, y’know?”

The room explodes into noise. “Call the Kingsglaive that are beyond the Wall. Get them searching for him, he can’t have gone far,” King Regis orders. “Cor, gather a group of Crownsguard and scour every single inch of the Wall. I want my son found and I want it done _yesterday.”_

“What about us, Your Majesty?” Gladiolus asks, oddly eager, as Ignis nods and the room empties far quicker than it got filled. “There must be something we can do. I mean, this is _Noct.”_

“You are to research what he has done in the last week. Determine just who he was talking to, where he went, and what he did.” King Regis looks at Prompto. “Mr. Argentum can stay here in the Citadel until we can be certain that he is in no danger.”

“I can’t do anything to help?”

“No,” the king denies instantly. “You are a civilian, Mr. Argentum. I will not put you in the line of fire.”

“But—”

“The matter is settled.” King Regis stands. “Clarus, please escort him to the guest quarters. I will be in my office. Alert me to anything new.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Clarus says with a bow, and King Regis leaves in a rush of orders and gold. Prompto slumps over in relief because _wow,_ okay, that happened, and Clarus looks at him. “Follow me. They aren’t far.”

Prompto nods, taking out his phone and going on Kwehtter. Already, people are wondering why the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard are out in droves. Niflheim spy? Did someone get kidnapped? Did something get stolen?

Did the prince disappear?

That’s the one that’s trending. _#WheresNoctis_ is taking over Kwhetter like a storm, and there’s threads speculating about how the prince never appears in the public eye, that he was about to begin high school, that he was in a vulnerable state. The Citadel is in lockdown, the fall of the Wall is imminent, King Regis will trade his son for himself. All theories, all wild and out there, but gaining traction because there’s no other information. Prompto grimaces at the screen, wanting so badly to correct them, but he can’t. He can’t risk anyone finding out what he knows. He’s an easy target.

“Here it is,” Clarus rumbles, stopping in front of him. Prompto blinks, rousing himself from his social media trance, and tilts his head. “This is where you’ll be staying until further notice. If you need anything, there’s a remote on the bedside table that will give you a line to the maids or cooks. Get some rest.”

He stalks away, leaving Prompto behind to be bewildered and slightly frightened. Bahamut, how do royals live? Maids? Cooks? Jeez.

He shakes his head. No, he can’t think like that. For now, the only thing he can do is monitor Kwehtter and try to get more information from others. Simple.

“I'm so fucked,” Prompto says to the empty hallway. It, predictably, doesn’t answer him. Rude.

* * *

Morning comes in a wash of warm light, making him wrinkle his nose and bury his face into his pillow. No way is it time to wake up yet. His house is close enough to the train station that he can stay in bed a little bit longer.

Then the fact that the bed, blanket, _and_ pillow are way softer than they should be. Prompto opens his eyes and sits up, covers slipping down to puddle around his waist, and he stares at the bedroom around him. Holy shit.

Marble floors, flat screen TV on the wall, a walk in _closet,_ and a bathroom that’s probably the size of Prompto’s kitchen. What the fuck. Why would anything need to be this big?

“Wait, shit.” He grabs his phone and opens Kwehtter, scrolling through his timeline. The hashtag from last night has exploded, thousands of tweets with it unfolding before his eyes. It’s only been nine hours—could the king have made a statement in that time?

He goes on LucisTube. Already, there’s videos about people theorizing, and when he types Prince Noctis into the search bar, a livestream comes up. He clicks on it and tries not to cry when King Regis says, _“We don’t know what happened to my son, but we are putting every possible resource we have to finding him and to bring him home.”_

Prompto goes back to the beginning. There’s no real reason to watch from the middle.

It starts with King Regis stepping out onto the Citadel steps, barely looking better than he did last night. It immediately sets the crowd of reporters off, even as Crownsguard make sure they can’t go past the first step. Ignis and Gladiolus are off to the side, Clarus behind King Regis, face severe, and—

“I will not mince words,” King Regis says wearily. “My son is missing. Prince Noctis is missing. We do not know where he is, or who took him. This happened late last night and I apologize for any interrupted sleep. The Kingsglaive and the Crownsguard were acting on my orders.” He takes a shuddering breath. “As of right now, there are no leads. Normally I would keep this under wraps, but I cannot this time. This is my _son;_ this is your future king. I will be opening a hotline and giving out an email for tips. Please. Help me find my son.”

Reporters are all shouting questions, some pointed and some not, but King Regis is already looking tired. Ignis steps forward, eyes hard, and says, “I am afraid that we cannot give any specific details to the investigation. This is not something to take lightly; your prince is missing. We will not take any risks for his safety.”

As they start to call on the audience for questions, Prompto closes out of LucisTube and opens Kwehtter again. The press event has been running for roughly thirty minutes, and won’t do so any longer, which means that the general population must have already taken to social media. Some are praising King Regis for his transparency, some are condemning them for allowing it to happen in the first place. Others are cheering, because they never liked the monarchy in the first place, and now that the prince is gone, there will be someone new in charge. And still others are genuinely trying to help search for him, posting links to websites that have pictures of Prince Noctis, posting the hotline number and email address.

Some are saying they’re hoping Prince Noctis is dead. That he was a disgrace to his line, same as his father, and they were going to let all the Niflheim refugees and outsiders ruin the great city of Insomnia, and Prompt almost throws his phone when he reads those. Why? Why would they hate Prince Noctis? He didn’t even _do_ anything!

“Gods dammit,” he sighs, and gets out of bed. He can’t just lay around all day, not when there’s a prince out there. Not when someone he always wanted to know, someone who he was asked to be a friend of, is out and possibly in trouble and probably hurt, and— 

Prompto splashes his face with cold water. Okay. First things first. Prince—Noctis. He hated being called Prince Noctis when he was younger, and the fact that Ignis called him Noct says that he still does. So. Noctis withdrew a lot of money. He got rid of his phone. He took a lot of weapons. He thinks he’s going to be gone for a while.

(He thought of Prompto before he left. He knew him well enough to buy him a camera. That means something, even though Prompto doesn’t know what. The fact that Noctis came to Prompto’s neighborhood before he left means something, and the implications have his ears burning. His stupid crush on Noctis—there was no way it could ever be returned. Noctis doesn’t even know he exists!

...Doesn’t he?)

Prompto shakes his head sharply, slapping his cheeks. That’s enough of that. It won’t help him find Noctis.

Okay. He needs a computer. He can set up an algorithm—a code—that scans all public messages for mentions of Noctis. He can program a few key words into the search, make sure that it catches them…maybe even program it to recognize facial features. It’ll take a bit but he could do it. He's good with things like that—technology unfolds under his hands and he can see it all as a blueprint in his head. The only problem is if Noctis did go outside the Wall, then the changes in technology would be…big. Maybe he could subscribe to a few newspapers? Trade information for things from Insomnia? Gods, he doesn’t know.

He just—the thought of Noctis being alone out there, not knowing what to do; it makes his heart hurt. It makes him want to cry. He’s an emotional person, but a thought usually isn’t enough to bring him to tears. This is internal, not external, and Prompto doesn’t know how to deal with it. So he doesn’t. He’s good at that.

He pulls on a shirt, soft and black and more expensive than his entire wardrobe, and grabs a pair of jeans. His hair doesn’t really need to be combed, so he just runs his fingers through it, slips his feet into his shoes and pokes his head out the door. The hallway is empty except for a maid lingering in the corner, a duster in hand. Prompto narrows his eyes at her but she doesn’t seem to notice him. He closes the door quietly behind him and slinks away, not sure if he should make noise or not; the Citadel has that air that museums have. You’re not supposed to be loud. He can’t imagine growing up here—how did Noctis survive?

A Kingsglaive with braids in his hair meets him just as he enters a room. He doesn’t even know what this room is for.

“Mr. Argentum,” the Kingsglaive says, arms folded behind at parade rest, and Prompto smiles weakly at him.

“Hi. Um. What do I call you?”

“You can call me Nyx.” Nyx flashes him a smile that makes his cheeks heat up. “I was ordered to escort you to your tutoring session. The Citadel is big and easy to get lost in.”

“You can say that again,” Prompto replies, falling into step beside him. “I mean, how could anyone live here?”

“Having the king as your father probably helps,” Nyx says dryly, and it’s so unexpected that Prompto laughs. Nyx smiles, eyes warm. “Listen, don’t worry too much. This is temporary. We know what we’re doing and we’re gonna find Prince Noctis soon.”

“I’m not worried,” he denies instantly. When Nyx gives a skeptical look, he can only shrug. “Okay, so maybe I am. But I know that you guys are good at your jobs. I just—he’s gone. And i don’t know what to do with that information.”

“It’ll be fine. Not much can harm him.” Nyx opens a door and waves him inside. “I’ll be back in about an hour and a half. Have a good time.”

“Don't patronize me,” Prompto laughs, but he goes. Noctis will be found soon and everything will be fine.

Right?

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Noctis blows right past Hammerhead. Cid will know his face, knows his dad, and will more than likely call him the moment he enters Hammerhead. So he drives by it without slowing down and goes to the Hunter’s outpost near the Tomb of the Wise. It’s small, and more importantly, not frequented for long periods of time. Noctis could stay there for a while, switching between the caravan and the haven when he needed to wash up, and it could give him the time to get his bearings. The drive, the sight of Insomnia fading from view—it made his muscles relax. He’s better out here on the road than in Insomnia. He at least knows how to act here.

He pulls into the outpost, the truck groaning in protest, and Noctis steps out onto the sand. With a yellow shirt on, cargo pants, and a hat jammed on his head, he doesn’t look like the prince at all. No one gives him a second glance, even as he walks up to the person selling subs and orders a cheesesteak. He’s just someone passing through. But this is a tipster and Noctis needs something to do. Something _normal._ So he says, “Do you have any hunts?”

The tipster glances up at him, eyes sharp and lingering on his face, on the muscles on his arms. “Aren’t you a little young to be a Hunter?” he asks gruffly. Noctis sighs, handing over the gil.

“Not really. Don’t have anything else to do,” he says, and the tipster makes a face.

“I do, but it’s hard. There’s a senior Hunter here. He can show you the ropes.” The tipster leans back and shouts, “Hey, Ron! We got a new Hunter here.”

A man with hair as dark as Noctis’ but with a slight green shine stops reading his book and looks up. “Him?”

“I’m…” Noctis pauses. “I’m Orion. No last name.”

Ron hums. “Got any weapons?”

“I got a sword, a couple daggers, a gun. Maybe a lance?”

“Impressive. Know how to use them?”

Noctis snorts. “Of course. I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t have weapons I don’t know how to use."

Ron gives him a smile. “Grab as many as you can. Nate, what’s the hunt?”

“Two coeurls,” the tipster—Nate—replies. “One’s an adolescent, one’s an adult.”

“Fuck coeurls,” Noctis mutters, and Ron laughs.

“Yout got that right. We’ll take it. Go get your weapons. Is it nearby?”

“Just over the hill. People’ve been too scared to go over there,” Nate says drily. “I wonder why.”

Laughing, Ron shakes his head and claps Noctis’ shoulder. “Alright, Orion. Let’s go.”

Noctis gives him a thin smile, pretending to go to his truck and searching for weapons. A small flash of magic and he’s holding a sword and a pair of daggers that he straps to his thighs and back. Ron gives him an approving nod, patting his own sword and heading off, clearly assuming Noctis would follow. He does, because he’s physically fifteen and also because he doesn’t know where the fuck to go.

“First time hunting?” Ron asks, almost casually, but Noctis can hear the undercurrent of danger in the words. He grimaces, pulls his hat lower on his head, and mumbles an affirmative. “What caused you to start?”

“Got no other choice,” Noctis says softly. “You know how it is.”

“I do, unfortunately.” Ron stops just as they reach the top of the hill, coeurls yowling below them. “Listen, you’re young. If you need any kind of help, just go to another Hunter. They’ll help you out.” He pats Noctis’ head. “We Hunters look after each other. Don’t be afraid to reach out, kid.”

Noctis really wants to know what happened to this Hunter in five years. Actually, he doesn’t. He recovered so many dogs tags and... he doesn’t want to think about it. “Okay.”

Ron smiles at him and runs down the hill. Noctis follows, warping at over small distances to keep up and trying not to wince at the drain on his magic. Ron’s flipping off the back of the adult coeurl, eyes narrowed in concentration, and the adolescent is jumping for him, whiskers sparking with electricity, and Noctis is warping forward before he can think better of it. He's grabbing Ron and warping away in the heartbeat between seconds, and he tumbles to the ground a moment later.

Ron, face pale, grabs at his stomach and dry heaves. Noctis winces in sympathy, pushing himself up onto his feet and grabbing his sword. The adult coeurl snarls at him, talons digging into the sand, and Noctis grimaces, running at it. He slides to the ground as it leaps forward, sword pushing into its underbelly and dragging. The coeurl yelps, blood dripping into the ground, and Noctis warps to the top of a rundown building.

"Orion!" Ron shouts at him. "What the fuck was that?"

"Kinda busy," Noctis yells back as he slams into the adolescent, sword disappearing in a flash of blue and daggers appearing in his hands. A twitch of his fingers summons a Fira and he pushes it into the coruel's mouth, warping towards Ron. The coeurl bites down automatically, and Noctis flinches when it screams as fire attacks its insides.

Ron glances as the adult coeurl, eyes hard as it lays down, too much blood lost, before turning to him. Noctis slumps onto the ground, eyelids heavy and magic stores aching.

"Orion, what the fuck was that?" Ron demands quietly, and Noctis blinks at him sleepily.

"Magic," he slurs out. "Is called warpin'. Hard to do sometimes."

"Since when do you have magic?!"

"Years." Noctis giggles, tilting backwards until his back hits the sand. Ron sighs, picking him up and settling him on his back in a piggy back ride.

"Are you a Kingsglaive?" Ron asks after a long moment, and Noctis is coherent enough to realize that he shouldn't say that he's the prince, so he just nods against his shoulder. "Alright. Anywhere you want to go?"

"Caravan. Wanna sleep."

Ron chuckles, patting his thigh. "You got it, bud. Go to sleep."

_("Ignis, I'm tired."_

_Ignis hums, petting his hair. Noctis tilts his face into it, snuggling into his retainer's lap. "I know."_

_"I don't like magic training," he says to Ignis' stomach. "It makes my head hurt."_

_"I know."_

_"I want to sleep."_

_Ignis leans down to press a kiss against his cheek, smile warm and voice quiet. "Then do so. I will be here when you wake."_

_"Okay.")_

"Okay."

* * *

Noctis dreams:

The world is starlight and color, endless and overwhelming. He is in his thirty year old body, golden knee brace on his leg and the ring heavy on his finger. Bahamut stands before him, cold and distant in his armor and wings of swords, but Noctis fought against Ifrit and Ardyn and won against Pitioss Ruins and so he stays where he is.

"Chosen King," Bahamut intones, and his eyes are sharp like lightning, like the shine of light against a blade, and his voice is so deep Noctis can feel it in his bones. "Do you know why you are here?"

"No."

"The Prophecy was completed." Bahamut shrinks down before his eyes, armor falling off him and dissipating into stardust, until a man stands in front of him. There are wings on his back, claws on his hands, scales on his skin, but he is a man and Noctis can look him in the eyes. "The Astrals were freed."

"And I died for it."

Bahamut reaches out, something like grief, like anger, like agony making his lips twist as he gently cradles Noctis' face. "Yes. The Prophecy foretold it, and we were bound to it just as you were." His thumbs gently ran across Noctis' cheekbones. "For that I am sorry."

"Then why am I here?" Noctis asks, hands coming up to grip Bahamut's wrists. "I was dead. I was fine being dead."

"We were bound of our own choice. I bled myself dry for Eos, and the others did what they could. But you…oh, Chosen King, you were born into it. It was not what you deserved."

"Bahamut—"

"I gave you a second chance. The Scourge is here but it will not require your sacrifice again. This is the best I could do."

"But—" Noctis chokes on his words and Bahamut's eyes are so very soft and understanding, nothing at all like the draconian Astral Noctis knew.

"I know that it was not your wish. But you have a chance to be happy." He pulls Noctis close, resting his forehead on Noctis'. "I only wish for you to be happy, Chosen King."

Noctis sucks in a shuddering breath, arms coming up to wrap Bahamut in a hug, and he's warm like sunbathed rocks. "I don't want to be back," he says, voice breaking. "I want to know that what I did wasn't for nothing."

"It wasn't," Bahamut assures him. "The sun came back."

"What—what should I do?"

"That is entirely up to you," Bahamut says, and the world is fading, turning to gray just as it did right before Noctis left the Crystal, and Noctis doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to do anything but stay here and rest, but Bahamut is disappearing too.

"I left you a present in your Armiger," Bahamut says, a whisper in his ear and everything turns dark. "After everything you went through to claim them…I thought it would be best. Good luck, Noctis."

Noctis jerks up, chest heaving. The familiar walls of a caravan don't help calm him down; without the others sleeping in the beds next to him, it feels empty and stifling. He throws his legs over the edge, placing his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. What kind of dream was that?

Bahamut is the God of War, the Lord of blades and starlight and loyalty. There is no room in him for mercy, for regret, or so Noctis was told. But then again, he was told a lot of things—about Ardyn, about the Crystal, about how he was meant to bring back the dawn. He’s sick and tired of things being kept from him, or information being twisted until it fits someone else’s agenda.

He looks at his hand, remembering what Bahamut told him. The only thing he really struggled to get were the Royal Arms…

An image of his father’s sword, strong and steady and familiar, and with a shimmer of blue light, it falls into his palm. It looks the same as it did when he used it against Ardyn, and he runs a finger down the edge of the blade. It’s still wicked sharp.

This sword is more important than any other, past even the Blade of the Mystic. It is the weapon his father used to protect him, the weapon Noctis regained from Ravus’ corpse. It is the last weapon that pierced his chest before he died.

Noctis drops it, shaking as he curls into a ball. Gods, he was doing so _well_ in trying to forget. He’s been doing his best to avoid even thinking about the future, about what will come, and yet—here he is, bringing it up.

He used that sword as a teddy bear when he was younger, when he couldn’t move his legs and was trapped in a wheelchair. It was always by his bed, always in view, and—

_(“Dad, can you not leave tonight?” Noctis asks hesitantly, fingers worrying at the blanket. Dad blinks in surprise, stopping with one foot in the air, and he’s regretting asking already. Dad is the king; he has more important things to do than watch over a kid._

_“Why not, Noctis? We are in Tenebrae; there is little place safer than here.” Dad says, coming over and brushing a strand of hair behind his ears. Noctis frowns down at his lap._

_He admits, without not a little embarrassment, “I don’t want you to not be here when I wake up.”_

_Dad smiles and sighs, loving and accepting, and Noctis brightens as he scoots over. Dad climbs into bed with him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, and Noctis has never felt more safe. Even in his own room in the Citadel, even in the Regalia. In his dad’s arms, nothing can touch him._

_Not even the daemons that prowl in the dark.)_

Noctis kicks his foot out, against the bed frame, digging his nails into his scalp. He needs to calm down, he needs to fucking _breathe—_

_(“Prompto!” Noctis shouts as his best friend disappears around a corner. He’s another illusion, he knows it, but he can’t take that risk. If Prompto thinks he’s an illusion and is just trying to escape, Noctis has to run after him._

_He has to._

_“Prompto, stop running! It’s me!”_

_Another turn, a flash of red plaid, and Noctis almost slams into the wall. He’s gone, he’s gone again, and nothing Noctis does can stop him._

_“Noct?” calls a voice, and it’s a siren song, something that Noctis could never resist._

_"Prom!” he yells back, forcing his body to run. A daemon tries to attack him and he blasts it away with Holy without a thought. For once, the Ring isn’t heavy. Not when Prompto is so near._

_“Noct! Help!”_

_“I’m coming!”_

_He can see Prompto, he can see him, he’s almost there, and—)_

Noctis groans, slamming his hand against his head. He wasn’t trying to think of that, he _wasn’t trying to think of Zegnautus Keep._ He wasn’t trying to think of Prompto, tied and exhausted and bleeding, convinced he hated him for something he couldn’t control. Convinced that Noctis could do anything but love him.

No. No, he left Insomnia so that he wouldn’t be reminded of those things. Of the past-future, of the possibilities and heartbreak.

Noctis dismisses his father’s sword with a flick of his wrist and stands. He needs to leave. Right now.

He only makes it two steps out the door before Ron clears his throat. Noctis pauses, glancing at him. “Yeah?”

“Where d’ya think you’re going, kid?” Ron asks, giving him a sharp look. Noctis avoids his gaze. “That’s what I thought. Listen, you did some fancy magic. The kind that only the royals can do.” He narrows his eyes. “The kind that we don’t see around here.”

Noctis shrugs. “I never said that I wasn’t someone important.”

“AWOL?”

“You could say that.”

“Planning on coming back?”

“Depends.”

Ron sighs, running a hand down his face. “Kid, you’re not making this easy. I can’t just let you leave.”

“I’m going to leave either way,” Noctis replies, crossing his arms and striving to make his fifteen years old body look like his thirty years old one. He fails, probably miserably, but Ron is nice enough not to call him out on it. He only shakes his head tiredly, holding out his hand. Dog tags dangle from his fingers, and Noctis blinks at them. He doesn’t remember ever wearing dog tags. He got them, sure, but he just threw them in the Armiger. But…he had a group back then. He reaches out and takes them, slipping them over his head. Ron gives him a smile.

“Don’t take those off, you hear me? We have ID numbers on the back of those. I already told them your name.”

Noctis nods. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Ron looks him in the eyes. “You were damn lucky back there. Don’t ever do that again. You’re too young to die like that.”

Noctis can’t promise that. He’s used to working in a group, as part of a well-oiled machine. He isn’t used to fighting alone without Ignis at his back, Prompto taking aim at an enemy, Gladio blocking a blow that Noctis didn’t see coming. He can’t promise that, so he offers a shrug. “I’ll try.”

Ron claps his shoulder. “That’s all I ask. Your truck is over by the haven. I doubt you’re old enough to actually _drive,_ but who cares about that out here?”

“Thanks,” Noctis says quietly, watching as he walks back to the tipster. Noctis shakes his head as he makes his way to his truck and jerks the door open. His keys are in the cupholder, his money still in his bags, and Noctis breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Good.

He gets in, turns the key in the ignition, and drives out of Keycatrich Trench. It fades in the rearview mirror, and Noctis feels so incredibly _tired,_ all of a sudden. He wrinkles his nose and turns on the radio. A voice crackles to him: _“We urge all citizens to report any possible sightings of Prince Noctis to their nearest Kingsglaive outpost. We repeat: the prince is a young teenager with black hair and blue eyes; he may be going by a different name. And now, we will return to King Regis.”_

_“I plead with any citizen who could possibly have seen my son to tell us. Noctis is fifteen years old, and does not even know how to make potions. He is my son—”_

Noctis switches the station.

_“Prince Noctis is fifteen years old; he will have black hair and blue eyes—”_

Again.

_“We are speaking with Marshal Leonis. Marshal, do you have any possible leads on the prince’s disappearance?”_

Again.

_"Clarus Amicitia has released a statement—”_

Again—

_“Ignis Scientia, future advisor—”_

Noctis turns off the radio, grip tightening on the steering wheel. No mention of Prompto, but that makes sense. Prompto is only a civilian; they wouldn’t drag him into this.

_(A woman shoves a microphone in Prompto’s face. “Mr. Argentum! A moment of your time, please!”_

_Noctis frowns from where he’s about to walk in the school gates. Prompto is laughing nervously, eyes darting everywhere, and there’s something desperate in the way he’s tapping his foot._

_“Ah, yeah? I have to get to class soon—”_

_“It won’t take more than a second,” the woman assures him, the camera man behind her already nodding. Prompto gives them a wavering smile._

_“I guess? I mean—yeah, sure. What do you want to ask?”_

_“What is the prince like as a friend? What does he like?”_

_Prompto’s smile falls. “Is that all you wanted to ask me? You just want to know about Noct?”_

_“He’s the prince,” she says, as though it explains everything, and it kind of does, but it—hurts that they would do this._

_Prompto’s eyes narrow, turning cold as ice, and Noctis rocks back on his heels at the nasty snarl in his friend’s voice. “Listen. Noct is a person. I’m not telling you_ ** _shit._** _Not now, not ever. Not until you see him as a human being rather than something to make money off of.” He turns on his heel and marches towards school, grabbing Noctis’ arm and dragging him with him. “Stupid. Why would they just do that, right in front of you! Why even ask me?” It’s not like I would tell them anything…”_

_Noctis smiles helplessly, and he thinks that this is what falling in love is like.)_

Nope. No thinking of that.

Noctis focuses on the road, and tries to pretend that his heart isn’t breaking the farther he drives from Insomnia.

He fails.

* * *

One year passes. Noctis spends Prompto’s birthday pressed up against the corner in a dungeon, a behemoth growling down at him. He gets a scar on his leg for his trouble, and five thousand gil. He downs a potion in a motel room and muffles his screams into his pillow as his broken clavicle snaps into place.

He takes a picture of the Meteor, staring down at where Titan slumbers, and almost calls out for his best friend. Almost, because he’d turned, mouth already opening to say a joke, and stopped dead in his tracks. There was no Prompto next to him, just as there was no Gladio and no Ignis. He deletes the photo a day later without a thought. There’s no reason for him to have it when there isn’t anyone to show it to. Besides, he isn’t that good of a photographer. It was blurry and his finger was in the frame. Prompto would’ve done much better.

He wonders, sometimes, what kind of photos Prompto has taken back in Insomnia. Whether or not he became friends with Ignis and Gladio, or if he’s spent the months in high school on his lonesome. Or…

Or if someone managed to befriend him. Become his best friend in Noctis’ place. If they’ve come up with inside jokes, nicknames, if they know each other’s secrets, if they’ve spent nights curled up in the same bed and just talking until they’re close to passing out.

If someone has managed to fall in love with Prompto. If they managed to confess, managed to work up the courage and lay their heart out for him to see unlike him at ages fifteen, seventeen, twenty, thirty. He wouldn’t blame them; it’s hard not to love Prompto, just as it’s hard for someone to be that close to him and not—like him. Like that.

The thought makes him want to throw up. So he doesn’t think about it.

They’re both sixteen now. The first time around, Noctis rented out the entire arcade and bought him a brand new camera. Prompto had swatted at him and yelled at him for spending so much money, but he couldn’t stop smiling so Noctis knew—he knew he wasn’t mad.

He wonders what Prompto did for his birthday this year.

(Noctis spent his birthday in Steyliff Grove, with barely any elixirs and potions, running on a broken ankle, gasping in pain and fighting against a Ronin. He has two scars from that; one on his arm from where he blocked a sword and the other on his chest. It was almost his throat but he managed to dodge just in time. He has to wonder what Prompto was doing that day. Probably nothing. To him it would just be another day in August.

He isn’t sure why that hurts so much.)

Noctis is in Old Lestallum when he turns on the radio. The old, beat up MP3 player he bought makes it scratchy and cut out as he climbs the Rock of Ravatogh, sweating buckets and legs shaking, and he’s humming along to a song when the announcer comes on.

_“It has been one year since the disappearance of Prince Noctis. None have come forth to claim responsibility for his supposed ‘kidnapping’ but there have been multiple reports of sightings around Insomnia. Most have been in the refugee district, which has since brought scrutiny upon the Crown for the state of the homes. There have been little to no sightings reported from outside the Crown City, but unfortunately none of them has led King Regis any closer to finding the prince.”_

Noctis sits down on the ledge, summoning a water bottle from his Armiger with a flick of his wrist and taking a drink. The sky is incredibly clear; he can see the large birds that fly around here clearly. They’ll be a bitch to fight.

_“Due to the time frame, some have pushed for the prince to be officially listed as deceased. Others have argued it, the most passionate among them being Prompto Argentum—“_

Noctis drops his water bottle, the sound of it slamming against the stone alerting the Zu to his presence. He swears, ripping the earbuds out of his ears and dropping down to the ground below, Armiger sparking into existence and circling around him.

Astrals dammit. Him going away, him _leaving_ was supposed to protect Prompto from all this attention. But of course Prompto wouldn’t let anything rest. He shouldn’t have expected anything different; this is _Prompto_ they’re talking about. He never lets anything go. Like, ever. He remembers things from five years ago and will not hesitate to bring it up if it wins him an argument.

Wonder what he’s holding a grudge about now.

* * *

Prompto’s knuckles ache. He grimaces and rubs his hand on his shirt absently as he stares down at the man in front of him. “What did you say?” he asks, and the man is too busy sputtering in outrage to even answer. Prompto scoffs and crouches down in front of him, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in close. “What did you say?”

This guy is part of an Anti-Crown terrorist group, one of many, but it’s gaining traction. The internet isn’t nearly as safe as anyone thinks it is. Especially not when Prompto has programs running twenty-four seven. Normally, he doesn’t do anything with the information other than giving it to Nyx or Cor, but this guy slipped through the cracks in the last raid. That alone would be enough for Prompto to go after him, but— 

He was yelling about Noctis. About how he hoped that he was dead, about how he hoped that the Niffs got him. And that warrants a more…personal approach compared to his usual “destroy their lives” kind of thing.

He tightens his grip on his shirt and growls out, “What did you say about Noct?”

The man doesn’t say anything, eyes sparking in outrage, so Prompto punches him again, knocking him to the ground. The crowd around them mutters and takes pictures, but Prompto only grins at them. He’s kinda infamous for these types of things.

A faint rush of wind has him turning around, and sure enough, Nyx is there. He gives him an exasperated look as he hauls the guy to his feet (he has a name but Prompto staunchly refuses to use it because of what he said about Noctis).

Prompto gives him a winning smile. “Hey, Nyx,” he chirps. “How’s it going?”

“It’s irritating,” Nyx returns. “Same as you. You’re in a mood, aren’t you.”

“What do you mean?” Prompto crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. “I’m always sunshine personified.”

Nyx snorts. “Yeah, sure. Listen, the Marshall wants you to drop by later today. Said there’s something he wants to talk to you about.”

Prompto’s smile flickers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, shit.” He sighs. “Guess I’ll head that way, then.”

“Good luck,” Nyx offers, and then starts to lead the man to where a Kingsglaive van is parked. Prompto shakes his head.

“I’ll need it,” he mutters, and starts to make his way to the Citadel, pulling out his phone only a few steps into his walk.

It’s the week of Noctis’ vanishing act, and since the anniversary of it was yesterday, Kwehtter is buzzing with it. He scrolls through a few posts, absently noting who was who, but the gold mine is the hashtag _#PrinceNoctis._ It’s one that goes through its rounds every few months or so, spurred on by King Regis’ urging and deteriorating health, but there was a big announcement about it recently. It’s been a year, and Noctis should be sixteen now. Turning seventeen soon, actually. The reminder of the fact that their prince is an actual human being who ages and who is probably in danger caused at least a million people to suddenly start caring about it again.

 **_hello darkness my old friend_ ** _@Timeywimeymagic_

_does anyone else think its weird how we stopped seeing captain drautos a few months ago???? maybe he had something to do with the disappearance of #PrinceNoctis_

 **_Conspiracy Theorist Prime_ ** _@nerdz4life_

_@Timeywimeymagic No, I thought the same thing. Like, the guy was in charge of the kingsglaive right? So he had to know about how the refugee district was, and he didn’t do anything. That seems really suspicious, doesn’t it?_

 **_blaze it_ ** _@sonix420_

_@Timeywimeymagic, @nerdz4life you guys sure are reaching today arent your theres no way someone like drautos could be a traitor_

 **_Conspiracy Theorist Prime_ ** _@nerdz4life_

_@sonix420 this coming from someone who literally just posted about how he hopes niflheim wins the war_

 **_SEASON 4 IS HERE THIS IS NOT A DRILL_ ** _@chakrawave_

_@sonix420 lmaooooo they called you OUT_

Prompto chuckles at that, already typing in his response.

 ** _STOP hacker time_** _@chocobochick_

_@Timeywimeymagic, @nerdz4life, @sonix420 Actually, the kingsglaive are under new management. Drautos has...mysteriously vanished. You remember that big fight earlier this year?_

 **_hello darkness my old friend_ ** _@Timeywimeymagic_

 **** _@chocobochick oh no fucking way_

 **_STOP hacker time_ ** _@chocobochick_

_@Timeywimeymagic oh yes way_

 **_Specs_ ** _@foureyes_

_@chocobochick what have I told you about doing this_

 **_STOP hacker time_ ** _@chocobochick_

 **** _@Timeywimeymagic, @nerdz4life, @foureyes Cheese it, its the police!_

He backs out of that thread, not wanting to risk Ignis’ wrath, and scrolls through a few more posts. They’re more of the same flavor, with the same basic message: _where is Noctis now?_ Some focus on how Insomnia has reformed in his absence and speculate on whether or not that was his goal all along, while others still think he was kidnapped by Niflheim or terrorists. There is no mention of how he was in Prompto’s neighborhood, nor how he went through careful means to conceal his preparations, but then there wouldn’t be. Prompto would be concerned if there was; that would mean a leak, and that can’t be allowed.

He switches to his official account.

 **_Help Prince Noctis ✓_ ** _@quicksilver_

_today marks the first anniversary of prince noctis’ disappearance. i hope that the reminder will cause the ones who forgot about it to remember it this year, and that we find him soon. as always, there is a link in my bio to the website the crown has set up in order to accept tips._

 **_ALWAYS tired_ ** _@cranberrysauce_

_@quicksilver your posts always make me happy to see. I’m glad that someone cares about his highness enough to look for him 24/7_

 **_I DONT HAVE A FOOT FETISH_ ** _@fyre578_

_@quicksilver you dropped this king 👑_

 **_swords r cool_ ** _@bahamutssword_

_@quicksilver lmao suck up much he probably hasn’t even left insomnia_

 **_give me coffee or give me death_ ** _@redfishbluefish_

_@bahamutssword dude what the hell is your problem???? king regis has been himself ragged trying to find his son and you’re sitting here being an asshole??? the monarchy are people too you dumb fuck_

 **_swords r cool_ ** _@bahamutssword_

_@redfishbluefish the monarchy is full of liars and politicians there’s no way the prince even left. captain drautos left and that guy has been there since the beginning_

 **_give me coffee or give me death_ ** _@redfishbluefish_

_@bahamutssword what??? king regis has never done anything that would indicate he would hurt his son???? he spoiled him!! and the drautos thing is fishy but I doubt it has anything to do with prince noctis_

Prompto scowls. Oh, Drautos did have something to do with it. Or at least, they think. They can’t exactly ask him because he’s dead. A few months after Noctis vanished, Drautos was acting strange enough that Prompto took a peek into his personal records. And, well…

_(King Regis’ Armiger is a beauty, a thing of magic and wonder, but his face is pale and conflicted as he stares at Captain Drautos. Prompto leans out from behind Cor, phone clutched in his hands, evidence compiled into a folder under his arm. Clarus’ expression is dark, knuckles white from where he’s gripping the handle, and Nyx takes a hesitant step forward._

_“Captain?” he whispers. “Captain, tell them they’re wrong. You’re one of us, right? You wouldn’t—wouldn’t send us out on suicide missions, right?” His hands shake. “Right?”_

_Captain Drautos draws himself up to his full height, and his confusion melts away like ice. “Wondered when you’d all catch on,” he chuckles, then looks at Prompto. “It only took a little runt to do some extra digging.”_

_Cor shifts in front of him, katana raised threatening as Prompto retreats even further behind him. “Don’t you_ **_look_ ** _at him,” he growls out, and Drautos rolls his eyes._

_“What—“ Prompto’s voice breaks. “What did you do with Noct?”_

_Drautos raises an eyebrow. “With that brat? I didn’t do anything.”_

_“You’re a liar!” Prompto shouts. “I saw the plans! You were going to do something to him!”_

_Drautos waves a hand, unconcerned even as King Regis’ Armiger comes to circle around his throat. “That was for a year from now. The brat left of his own accord. Nothing happens in Insomnia without me knowing about it.”_

_Prompto’s heart is pounding in his ears. He can't hear a thing, not a single word coming out of Drautos' mouth and before anyone can react he’s pulling the gun Cor shoved into his hands out, and fires. His arm flies back from the recoil, but the bullet is speeding towards Drautos, and nobody has time to react until he drops dead. Armor, silver and red and utterly daemonic, had started to climb up his neck, but the bullet had left his head before it could reach it._

_Prompto drops to the ground as though he was a puppet and his strings had been cut. The glittering blue Armiger dissipates as King Regis and Clarus rush towards him, and the papers upon papers of evidence Prompto had so painstakingly gathered are everywhere. He can’t breathe._

_He just killed a person. He just shot at them, and a bullet entered his forehead and left it, and his brain is all over the floor and he’s bleeding out and he’s staring_ **_right at him_ ** _—_

_Prompto can’t breathe.)_

His phone dings with a notification. Prompto takes a deep breath and hits the back button, fingers trembling as he untangles a pair of earbuds and starts up his music app. He never likes it when he’s reminded of Drautos.

As the guitar from Calling for Rain fills his mind, Prompto lifts his eyes from his screen to see Ignis waiting for him. He’s leaning against a car, clothes impeccable, not a hair out of place, and Prompto gives him a weak smile.

“Hey, Iggy,” he says. “Cor send you pick me up?”

Ignis adjusts his glasses. “Indeed. His Majesty also wishes for you to come to a meeting; there is something he must discuss with you.”

Prompto winces. “...Is it good or bad?”

“I cannot say.”

“Oh no.” Prompto’s shoulders slump. “Let’s go, then.”

Ignis spares him an unamused look, opening the back door and waiting for him to get in before starting the car. Prompto props his chin on his palm as he watches the city pass by. Ignis doesn’t say anything, but he knows that it’s because he doesn’t have anything to say. Iggy doesn’t like to mince words.

As they roll into the Citadel parking lot, Prompto heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “Any leads?”

“Afraid not,” Ignis replies softly. “We recently did a search of Insomnia—all of it—and there are no traces of Noct. We sent some Crownsguard outside the Wall to do a grid search of Leide, but…”

“Nothing,” Prompto finishes. “Have we tried Lestallum? Cape Caem?”

“Only three months ago. Noctis unfortunately knows the way the Crownsguard operate and how much manpower we have to spare.” Ignis shakes his head, parking the car and getting out. “We won’t stop the search, but…we aren’t likely to find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

Prompto wrinkles his nose. “I guess.” He pulls out his Citadel identification card and heads to the elevator, wiping it in so that he can go to floor fifty. Cor’s office is there. “I just. I still don’t know why he would leave.”

“Do any of us?” Ignis offers, and Prompto snorts.

“No. Hey, have any new recipes?”

Ignis’s eyes brighten and he launches into a long explanation of the way his cooking techniques have changed and how he’s subtly changed the recipe for the pastry that he’s made and remade for years. Prompto nods his head, making noises of interest and sympathy when Ignis expresses his frustration over how none of the berries taste quite right. When the elevator dings it’s cheerful bell, Ignis closes his mouth and aims an irritated look at the open doors. Prompto can only give him a helpless shrug as he steps out.

“Tell me more later?” he says, and Ignis gives him a nod.

“I think I shall,” he murmurs as the doors slide closed, and Prompto speedwalks to where Cor’s office is, surprisingly unassuming for someone known by basically all of Insomnia. There’s only a small plaque on the outside that labels it as Cor’s, but it fits for someone of his personality. Cor is practical and thus his work spaces are the same. 

He knocks and opens the floor without waiting for an answer. Cor is sitting behind his desk, signing something, and he grunts at him. Prompto takes that as the invitation it is, and sits down on the wooden chair in front of the desk; wooden, because Cor likes to torment anyone who comes to his office, and because he feels smug when he can sit in his comfortable, stuffed chair while they have to sit in…an abomination to all chair kind.

Prompto has a suspicion Cor told Monica to get the most stiff and uncomfortable chair she could. She certainly succeeded if that’s the case.

Cor slams the piece of paper onto the truly intimidating stack of paperwork on the corner of his desk, and Prompto watches it warily as it wobbles. Cor would likely make him help clean it up.

“So,” Cor starts, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I know that you’ve heard we don’t have any leads.”

“Yeah.”

“Then you also know that the prince isn’t anywhere in Insomnia, and that at this point we’re just keeping up pretenses.”

“Yep.”

Cor makes a face. “To be completely honest, you’re one of the most dedicated people in this case, beyond Ignis, Gladio, and Regis.” He stares him down. “I was wondering why.”

Ah. Prompto knew this would pop up sooner or later. To be completely honest, he isn’t sure either. He’s been absorbing all this information about Noctis for over a year, has been looking at pictures and watching videos, and—police do that all the time. But they don’t get this invested, this serious.

When he looks at the pictures of Noctis laughing, at the videos of Noctis yelling at a TV screen, bright and happy, he just…feels happy. There’s this sappy feeling in his chest that he can’t get out. And when he listens to stories about how Noctis was after the Marilith Attack that left him paralyzed, and how he had to claw his way back to mobility again—that makes him upset. It makes him sad, and angry, and something that he doesn’t even have a name for. Prompto fulfilled his promise to Lady Lunafreya; he tried to make friends with Noctis, and failed. He can’t talk to him, can’t reach him. If it was anyone else, they would’ve already left by now. Forgotten about it, about _him,_ and gone on with their lives.

Not Prompto. The mere idea of just letting this go, of letting _Noctis_ go; it’s unthinkable.

He’s done online schooling. He’s given up any social life. He’s been picking at the crumbs of what Noctis left behind, been getting to know Noctis through who he was and trying to learn who he may be now, and he can’t—there’s no way Prompto will stop looking. Not even if he’s old and gray. He will keep looking and looking, never giving up until he finds Noctis. And he doesn’t know why.

~~_(_ _Ever at your side, right, Noct?)_ ~~

“I’m not sure,” he says truthfully, looking down at his hands. His fingers twitch for the camera Noctis bought him; there’s a better model out, one that everyone has been screaming about, one that everyone says is _better,_ but Prompto loves it. Keeps it in top condition, makes sure nothing is cracked, learned how to be a halfway decent photographer before he even touched it. He doesn’t think he will ever get another camera.

He clears his throat, glancing up. “I don’t know why I’m so…dedicated. I just know that I can’t give him—it up. I can’t give it up.”

Cor doesn’t even blink. His face could be made of stone. Prompto wavers under the pressure for a moment, then rallies himself. As close as he’d like to think they’ve gotten over the past year, nothing Cor can say or do will stop him from looking. Not even Bahamut could.

After a minute or two of them just staring at each other, Cor huffs a laugh. “That’s what I thought,” he says, sounding incredibly amused. “That’s what Regis wants to hear; the council is pushing for him to call back the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive.”

“They’re _what?”_ Prompto shouts, leaping to his feet.

“We’re at war, kid,” Cor says tiredly. “Even with the prince missing, that doesn’t change.”

“But they haven’t attacked the Wall recently! They’ve retreated since we got rid of Drautos and the rest of the traitors in the Kingsglaive!”

“That doesn’t matter.” Cor shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as Prompto paces around in his office like a caged coeurl. Niflheim could be planning for a big attack, or could be prepping another turncoat. We don’t know what they’re going to do. The council wants to make sure we have all of what we can throw back at them ready.”

“So they’re going to turn their backs on their prince?” Prompto demands, turning another tight corner. “What the fuck is wrong with them?”

“Prompto.”

“No way King Regis would agree—that’s his son! He’s the king, he can shoot down whatever the council damn well wants, that’s how the monarchy _works.”_

“Prompto, Regis—“

“I’ll kill them for even suggesting it!”

“Prompto Argentum!” Cor roars, slamming his hands down on his desk. Prompto freezes, voice dying in his throat. “Prompto, Regis’ hands are tied. The council has as much say as this as Regis does; he makes the final decision but this isn’t a dictatorship. He has to do what’s best for the country, not just for his son.”

“But—“

“No, Prompto. The troops will be recalled within the week.” Cor sighs. “That’s why I called you here today.”

“So you could tell me that nobody’s going to be looking for Noct?”

“No.” Cor opens a drawer and pulls out a packet of paper and hands it over. “It’s for this.”

Prompto looks down at it, blinking when he sees the application form for the Kingsglaive. “What?”

“I know you’re not going to give up looking.” Cor snorts. “Hell, the whole damn city knows. But if you’re going to do that, you’re gonna have to learn how to fight.”

“But—wouldn’t I be better as a Crownsguard?”

 _“Ha._ No.” At Prompto’s confused look, he elaborates, “The Kingsglaive are trained in how to live outside the Wall, if they don’t know already. Plus, they’re used to fighting alone. The Crownsguard operate as a unit, and usually don’t take individual missions. Kingsglaive do, and if you’re going to do what we think you’re going to do, you’re going to learn how to work alone.”

Prompto clears his throat. “I—see. How long will this take?”

“To get you to a level where you won’t die the moment you step outside the Wall? A year.”

That’s too long. It only takes a moment for someone to die ( _—his arm hurts and Drautos is staring at him—_ ) and Prompto doesn’t have the time to _wait._

"A year—“

“Is the right amount of time,” Cor interrupts. “If Prince Noctis has managed to live for this long, then he will live for another year. You will find him, if only because you’re like a dog with a bone.” The Bluetooth speaker in his ear lights up and he inclines his head, pushing his chair back as he stands. “Regis will see you know. You know where to go?”

“No,” Prompto replies mulishly, but Cor merely grins at him as he strides past him and opens the door. King Regis is there, weirdly casual in only a suit, but his eyes are sharp and there’s a certain type of stubbornness about his expression. Prompto blinks at him, then hurries into a bow.

“Your Majesty,” he says, excessively formal, but this is the king, Noctis’ _dad._ He won’t do that to him. He probably gets enough of it from random people. The least Prompto can do is make sure that his interactions with him are _halfway_ pleasant.

King Regis waves a hand. “Please, there’s no need for that. I presume Cor already told you?”

“About the council?”

Prompto bites his lip to keep back the rage. “Yes.”

“Then you know what I have planned for you.”

“Sir?”

King Regis gives him a smile. “Prompto, you are to join the Kingsglaive, and leave the city under the guise of a summer vacation funded by your parents. This is to be a secret; no one may know. If word reaches Noctis, or whoever has him, that you are going after them, or that you may be on their trail…they may scatter and take my son somewhere else. A place where we won’t ever find them.” He sighs. “I...I fear that us not having a clue where they might be is the only thing that is keeping my son alive.”

The idea—the concept—the _notion_ that Noctis will die is enough to knock the air out his lungs. Prompto staggers, vision turning blurry, and he can’t _breathe._ Cor takes his arm and forces him down onto the floor. Prompto wheezes his thanks, pulls his legs to his chest, and forces his head between his knees. This isn’t his first panic attack, and it won’t be his last, but it’s been a _long_ time since he’s gotten one this bad.

The two adults talk above him as he forces his breathing back to normal, his heartbeat to stop echoing in his ears. Mind over matter, and all that. Prompto’s just gotten good at postponing his panic attacks. He considers it an impressive ability, although not one that he would call good.

By the time he calms down, King Regis is in the comfy chair and Cor is glowering out the window. Ha. Serves him right, the greedy bastard.

“Sorry about that,” he sniffs, wiping at his eyes. King Regis doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t motion with his head that Prompto should stay on the ground. He doesn’t have a problem with that order at _all._

“It is of no trouble,” King Regis says, and even his _voice_ has the dad vibe. Prompto envies Noct for growing up with him as his dad. “I am aware that nobody is infallible. You are a child, Prompto, there is no need to apologize for getting overwhelmed.”

“Still,” he tries, only to get a stern look from the king that has him shutting his mouth. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” King Regis says mildly. “Now, should you accept, your training will be different from other Kingsglaive. For one, you will not be under the command of Libertus. Instead, you will answer directly to Cor or myself.”

Okay. He can work with that.

“Two, your training will be done solely by Nyx, Crowe, or Cor. As you display a high efficiency with firearms and technology, you will not be required to learn how to use a sword or daggers.” His eyelids slip until they’re almost half-lidded. “And finally, you will not receive a Kingsglaive uniform. Nor a Crownsguard uniform. You will, of course, have clothes made of the same material given to you, but you cannot go around wearing black. It screams that you’re associated with the royal line. Are these terms acceptable to you?”

It’s all very secretive. It all seems like it's part of a conspiracy. But—if it will bring Noctis back home, to where he has a father and friends and people who love and worry about him…it’s not that big of a deal.

(If it will bring Noctis back so they can meet again, he would say yes to anything.)

“That seems alright to me,” he says lightly, and Cor’s eyes are full of approval as he drops to one knee. “Your Majesty.”

King Regis doesn’t smile, but his shoulders ease down a little, and so it is enough.

“Good,” he says warmly. “Your first training session is on Saturday. I would recommend you quit your job; Cor will provide you with money.”

Ah. Well. He’s had his current job for about two years now and he _still_ hates it. He has absolutely no compunctions with that.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You may go now. I believe Ignis is cooking in the kitchen.”

Prompto’s mouth waters. “I think I will, Your Majesty.” He gets to his feet and hurries out of the room, closing the door on King Regis’ laughter.

He _refuses_ to be embarrassed. Ignis’ cooking is to die for.

* * *

 **_Help Prince Noctis ✓_ ** _@quicksilver_

_i got a new job! super excited for it but i may go radio silent sometimes. wish me luck!_

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Altissia is beautiful this time of year. It’s hot and humid, but the weather has kept most of the tourists away, which means that Noctis can wander the streets without care. Vendors call out greetings to him, cheerful and carefree, and Noctis returns them. He’s happy he came to Altissia. It’s nothing at all like his memories; there’s no tension in the air from Luna’s supposed death, from Niflheim looming overhead. He has Prime Minister Claustra for that. He knew that she worked tirelessly to keep her country safe, but it’s startling to see without the destruction of Insomnia on their minds.

Fausta smiles at him brightly when he stops in front of her stand. Noctis laughs, handing over twenty Gil as he grabs his morning bait. “Hi, Fausta.”

“Hello, Orion,” she replies warmly, laugh lines wrinkling around her eyes. She’s an older woman, with two kids who have already grown up and moved out, and she has the green eyes and tan skin typical of people from Accordo. She has, unofficially, taken Noctis under her care. The only reason he says unofficially is because she has yet to convince him to move in.

“What’s the gossip from the grandmas?” he asks, leaning against a light pole, and Fausta laughs.

“Oh, nothing much. Just that Gioia seems very close to asking out her crush.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“She’s been composing a song,” Fausta tells him, voice pitched low in a way that says she is not, in fact, supposed to be telling him. “Something about blue eyes and dark hair.”

“Oh, no.” Noctis hangs his head. Gioia is…about a year younger than him, and has been bound and determined to date him since she met him. Sure, she’s been subtle about it, but Noctis grew up surrounded by politicians; he can read between the lines. “Fausta, I…”

She waves a hand. “Orion, you do not have to accept. Just let her down gently and Giovani will not be forced to gut you.”

“Giovani takes everything as an insult!”

“Then you’d better be ready to run,” she says primly. “Besides, aren’t you a big bad Hunter?”

“I’m good with daemons,” he says dryly. “Not humans. Especially not Giovani. I’ve seen what he can do with a knife.”

“Of course you have. You bring him his fish.”

He narrows his eyes. “Fausta, are you trying to say something right now?”

“No,” Fausta tells him, infuriatingly cheerful. “I’m simply saying that you were the one who talked to Gioia first.”

“I’m leaving,” he groans. _“Goodbye,_ Fausta.”

She grabs his arm, voice serious and grim, and it’s enough to make him pause. Fausta never sounds like that. “Orion,” she murmurs, “I know that you are on the run from something. But diplomats have come to renew the contract between Accordo and Niflheim; you have the typical Lucian looks. You best not come out soon. I heard the Chancellor is here now, and my Cesco has told me that he is not a kind man.”

_Ardyn._ Ardyn is here, he’s in Altissia, where Leviathan sleeps and where Noctis is living. He doesn’t—he can’t fight against Ardyn, not like this, not with the Crystal still filled with Light and him missing the Ring. He blinks.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “I see. Fausta, do you know anywhere I could stay? My—my current home isn’t safe enough.”

Nowhere is safe enough, not from Ardyn. But if he’s not there when Ardyn inevitably comes looking, then maybe he will survive. Maybe he needs to leave Accordo, but where would he go? He left Lucis a year ago under a fake name, and came to Altissia, and he’s built a life here. He isn’t wandering from haven to haven, stop to stop. He has an apartment, he’s a regular at certain restaurants—he has _friends._ If he leaves Altissia, he can’t stay in Accordo, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Accordo is lucky enough to be able to keep its government; Tenebrae doesn’t have that luxury, and Niflheim—

Noctis doesn’t have anywhere to go.

Fausta has pulled him into a hug, he notices. She’s warm. She smells like cookies. She’s saying things, the way Ignis did when he was eighteen and Ignis twenty and Noctis was falling apart.

_(Noctis, it will be okay—)_

“Orion, you need to breathe.”

_(You will not have to lose contact with Prompto—)_

“Please breathe with me—“

_(Noctis, I promise you, I will do everything I can—)_

“Shut up!”

_(Shut up!)_

Noctis shoves Fausta away, tears blurring his vision, and she stumbles. She almost falls, but she grabs onto her stand before she does, and she almost falls into the water. She almost—she almost hit her head, and she’s old and kind and that could’ve killed her, and Noctis doesn’t have any potions because he used the last of his last night and he hasn’t had the chance to buy more and—

“Sorry,” he whispers, and his mind is empty. He feels hollow. “I just—“

“Orion,” she begins, taking another step towards him, and Noctis flinches back. She stops. Her voice is soft and her eyes gentle as she says, ever so carefully, “You did not mean to push me. It is okay.”

Noctis needs to leave. He needs—he needs to go back to his apartment and think. Ardyn is here, which means that he needs a strategy. A way to fight him. He has the Armiger but he doesn’t have the _Ring._

But—

If Ardyn is here, then Niflheim will be left without the person who is basically running it. If Ardyn is here, then Noctis will have about two weeks to go to Niflheim and do—something. He can do something. Maybe sabotage the daemon experiments, maybe destroy the Magitek facilities, but he can do something. Even Ardyn can’t get away from talks like this.

And just like that, everything snaps into place.

“Sorry, Fausta,” he says. “I have to leave. I’ll be back, I promise. But I can’t stay.”

She nods as though she expected that, and maybe she did. Noctis hasn’t made it a secret that he’s been wandering.

“Do you need anything?” she says, already holding Gil in her hand, but Noctis shakes his head.

“No, I have enough.” He glances up at the building where Prime Minister Claustra is, then sighs. “I’ll be leaving today, as soon as I can. Is there any boat that can take me to Niflheim?”

“I know a man,” Fausta replies. “He will take you wherever you want to go; he owes me a favor anyway.”

“Thank you. Where can I meet him?”

“By the departing docks. His name is Nuncio. Just tell him that I sent you and he’ll let you on board, no charge. Be there in half an hour. He typically leaves at about ten.”

“That’s more than enough time,” Noctis says firmly, then spins on his heel and runs for his apartment. It’s small but no building in Altissia is that run-down; the homeless population is one of the smallest in the world, and that’s mainly because Prime Minister Claustra and the way she runs the governing body puts that on their priority list. And because she cares about her citizens, she makes sure that in every part of Accordo, there are cheap places to rent that are not in violation of health standards. If there are and the landlords are still renting it, well…

Let’s just say it isn’t pretty.

But thanks to that, Noctis has an apartment he can live in for roughly two-thousand Gil a month, and that’s on the higher side. He’s heard of places that go for a hundred Gil a month, and allow for slow payments. He kind of wants to implement this system in Lucis, honestly, but—

He shakes his head. No. He needs to leave; he doesn’t have time for those kinds of thoughts. He runs up the stairs and bursts into his apartment, grabbing his bags and stuffing his things into them. He puts his weapons back in the Armiger, pulls out his rent for the month and lays it down on the counter. Within fifteen minutes, the place that Noctis had slowly begun to call home is—bare. He blinks at it, clutching at his duffel bag with whitened knuckles. The place isn’t much, especially not to the Citadel, and it’s smaller than the apartment he had when he was in high school. It’s only a one bedroom, with a small kitchen that Noctis barely uses, but it’s—enough. It was more than enough.

It’s time to leave, though.

Noctis shakes his head and goes back to the streets, heading to the docks. There’s already people milling around it, chatting and waiting for their work days to start, and they take notice of him. Smile. Say, “Hey, Orion! Whatcha doing?”

Noctis can’t say anything. He feels like there’s a hand gripping his lungs. He can only shake his head and go to the departing station. There’s a man there—he’s alone. When he sees him, he puts one arm into the air and waves.

“Orion! Over here!” he shouts, voice deep and calm. “Fausta said that you needed some help getting to Niflheim!”

“Yeah,” Noctis says lowly, glancing over his shoulder. There’s no MTs, no Ardyn, but Noctis won’t feel calm until he’s far out of Altissia and in Niflheim. It’s odd that he’ll feel better once he’s going to be in the nation that he was raised to hate, but Ardyn has always made things weird like that.

The Sword of the Mystic flickers in the edge of his vision; it tends to do that when he thinks of Ardyn. It’s like his ancestor is trying to reach him, like Somnus is straining for the man who was once his brother. Noctis dismisses it without a thought. He doesn’t have the time.

“Look, I need out of here right now. Act like I’m not here. Talk to other passengers, do whatever you need to, just make sure I don’t stand out.”

Nuncio’s face turns grim. “Ah, that’s the kind of help you need. Don’t worry about it; I understand.”

Noctis gives him a weak smile and heads below deck as Nuncio greets other passengers. The less people who know he’s here, the better.

_(“The less people who know we’re here, the better,” Prompto says in the tone that says that he doesn’t actually know what he’s talking about. Noctis snorts, shifting so that he’s sitting on the floor. The warehouse is old, and abandoned, but there was a dusty ‘no trespassing’ sign that Prompto is apparently taking very seriously._

_“Prom,” he sighs out as he tugs his best friend down next to him, “you said that nobody has been here for years. I don’t think anyone is going to care.”_

_“Still!”_

_Noctis rolls his eyes, nudging Prompto’s shoulder playfully as he pulls out the Freeze he’d made earlier that day after bribing Ignis into giving him the necessary components. “Look, you wanted to come here.”_

_“I did,” Prompto agrees, unashamed. “I even brought the ice skates.”_

_“So calm down.” He tosses the Freeze into the air and warps to the rafters, dragging Prompto with him. The warehouse explodes into ice, a thick layer covering the floor and ice climbing the walls. Prompto makes a high noise of excitement, squirming until Noctis has to grab him by the back of the shirt so he doesn’t fall and crack his skull open._

_“Give it a minute to settle,” he says. “Unless you want to be turned into an ice sculpture? You won’t sell for much, probably.”_

_“Please, I’d sell for a trillion dollars.”_

_He would, if only because Noctis would empty out the royal treasury if he had to, but he doesn’t need to know that._

_“You wish,” he says instead, to wish Prompto shoots him a wounded look._

_“You’re so mean,” he complains, then tugs at his sleeve. “Now come on, let’s skate!”_

_"Do you even know how to skate?” Noctis asks as they warp onto some boxes._

_“You have no faith in me,” Prompto huffs, flopping down and taking off his shoes._

_“I have faith in your ability to overexaggerate,” Noctis replies dryly, sitting down beside him and grabbing his own skates. “Come on, tell me the truth.”_

_“You’re going to eat your words,” Prompto says, smacking him before slipping down onto the ice. He wobbles for a moment, trying to find his balance, and Noctis snorts._

_“Oh, yes, I’m eating them,” he says, and Prompto sticks his tongue out at him before starting to move. Or rather, starts to glide. He takes a step and slides forward, never once slipping, never once having doubt that he will fall. He’s graceful, beautiful, almost unearthly in the magic fog and permafrost, and Noctis has to duck his head to hide the way he’s blushing._

_“Are ya scared, Noct?” he teases, coming to a slow stop in front of him and offering his hand. Noctis rolls his eyes, grabbing Prompto’s wrist to pull himself to his feet. He hasn’t skated since he was like, seven; a few months before the Marilith Attack, actually, but it can’t be that hard._

_He resolutely ignored the fact that he couldn’t skate for shit even back then._

_“I’m gonna make you eat your words,” he says, then lets go. He immediately over balances and falls on his ass, blinking in shock._

_Prompto bursts out laughing, and he doesn’t even so much as lose his balance, the bastard. “Oh, yes, I’m totally eating my words,” he giggles. “I’m getting full, actually; thank you for the meal, Your Highness.”_

_“Shut up,” Noctis groans, and Prompto only nods._

_“Of course, of course,” he drawls, then tugs Noctis to his feet. “Let’s go slow. One step in front of each other.”_

_He grins, eyes bright and he’s enough to rival the sun. Noctis smiles back, warm despite the chill, despite the way he can feel himself wavering, and—)_

Noctis breathes out. They’ve left port by now, and when he checks his watch, he can tell that they’ve been on the water for roughly three hours. He’s dozed off, apparently; a memory in a dream. It takes two months at top speed to get from Altissia to the border of Niflheim on the water; normally, it takes six months to get to a legal stopping point. Noctis will have to wait, and wait, and wait, but he’s good at that. He had to be, when he was trapped in the Crystal.

He settles in to wait. Nuncio will probably bring him food. If not, then Noctis has food held in the Armiger, in stasis until he deigns to bring it out.

He just hopes that he won’t have dreams like that again.

* * *

Prompto’s back hits the training floor, and he groans. Nyx smiles down at him, all teeth, and doesn’t offer to help him up, the asshole. Prompto gives him a glare and pushes himself up. “I have to leave in half an hour, you know,” he accuses, feeling vaguely betrayed, and Nyx only laughs.

“And yet you took up my offer of sparring,” he teases, to which Prompto flips him off. He’s attractive as he always is—that is to say, extremely, _unfairly_ attractive—but he tricks people into thinking he’s kind and good and brave when he’s actually a bastard. Prompto does not understand how people actually _like_ him.

“Shut up,” he says, and gets to his feet as Libertus and Cor walk into the room. Cor raises an unimpressed brow at them and Libertus only sighs.

“You two couldn’t have…not done this?” he asks, sounding incredibly tired, and Nyx gives him a sunny smile.

“Absolutely not, Cap!”

“Don’t call me that,” Libertus snaps, but it doesn’t have any heat behind it. Nyx flicks a coin over and warps, landing on Libertus and cackling like mad as they both fall. Cor steps around them, unruffled by their antics, and walks over. Prompto straightens, meeting Cor’s eyes, and only relaxes when the marshall gives him a nod.

“Are you ready to leave?” he says, low and steady. “You know that you can delay it for another week.”

Prompto rolls his eyes. “Cor, I’ve been ready for months. I’m not gonna back out now. Not when—“

_Not when Noct is out there._ The words catch in his throat and he can’t say them. Cor hums, giving him a look that has him lowering his head sheepishly. Cor already knows that, of course; he’s said the words a million and one times before.

“I know,” his mentor says quietly, and Prompto can only smile sadly. Yes, he knows it’s ridiculous, but—

He fell in love. With the boy who might not exist anymore, with the memories and stories of what Noctis left behind, and it’s silly, it’s stupid, but the love he feels just feel right. It fits, like it was always meant to be, and nothing could never cut it out of him. Not ever.

“Then why ask if I want to wait?”

“Why indeed,” Ignis says as he walks through the doorway, Gladio at his side. “Prompto is our best bet to find Noct.”

Cor sighs. “Yes, I know, Ignis. But he has only had a year of training. I want to find Noct as much as you; I just don’t want Prompto to die.”

“Such faith in my abilities,” Prompto says dryly. “Thanks.”

“It’s called worry, brat,” Gladio tells him. “Also, I’m worried too. You tend to overestimate your own strength.”

“That’s true,” Nyx says cheerily, dragging Libertus over with him. “You do tend to do that. You might throw yourself at an Iron Giant, and then what?”

“I won’t do that,” Prompto says firmly. “I’m leaving to find Noct; I can’t let myself die.”

“Letting,” Libertus says quietly, with all the weight of a leader, “doesn’t have a lot to do with it.” 

They all fall silent at that. Prompto licks his lips, clearing his throat. “Then…Then I won’t go out at night. I won’t pick fights that I don’t need to. I just—I can’t stay.”

“I get it,” Gladio says tiredly. “Still, can’t we come with you?”

Cor shakes his head immediately. “No, it would be too suspicious. Besides…” He trails off, looking at Libertus. “We need your help with the rot in the Citadel.”

Ignis sighs. “I understand that but—“

“No,” Nyx says sharply, “he’s right. Prompto is famous amongst the citizens but he isn’t on the radar for the nobles. There’s a reason his training was done in secret. It won’t be seen if he leaves; it’ll just be seen as another futile attempt to find the prince. If you and Gladio leave…”

“We get that,” Gladio interrupts. “We’re just not happy about it.”

“Is anyone?” Prompto wonders. “Listen, I need to get going. It takes forever to leave the city.”

“You’re the one who designed the security measures,” Libertus says, deeply unimpressed, and Prompto waves a hand dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. See ya!”

He runs out of the training hall, barely stopping to grab his bag, and almost trips down the stairs. The car he (Ignis) rented is in the circle, ready to be used. Prompto gives the butler a loud thank you, throws his bag into the passenger seat and slides over the hood then gets in on the driver’s side. He turns the key in the ignition, shifts it out of park, and drives out of the gates. In the rearview mirror, he can see Ignis and Gladio standing at the top of the stairs, and Prompto grimaces as something strikes his heart. Dammit.

“Get over it, Prompto,” he mutters. “You knew it would be hard to say goodbye.”

He did—but he didn’t know how much it would hurt. He can’t turn around now, though, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that it takes like ten minutes to get verified so that they can get into the Citadel’s gates. His fault, like Libertus said, but it was all in the same of safety. And if he got to program the systems into not recognizing the more…corrupt nobles, then that’s all the better.

There isn’t much of a line for the way out of Insomnia; there never really is. People don’t _want_ to leave the safety of the Wall. There’s no daemons, no Niflheim—they can go about their lives and pretend that they don’t live in a war. Prompto can understand by, but it only makes them xenophobic to people of their own country. It’s ridiculous.

By the time he’s in Duscae, Prompto has managed to wrangle his thoughts back into order, and when he’s pulling into Hammerhead, he’s calm enough that he doesn’t want to scream. A woman with blonde hair and oil-stained overalls leans against a car, messing with some wires in her hands. Prompto shuts the car off and gets out, waving at her.

“You’re Cindy, right?” he asks, eyes lingering on the fall of her hair. It looks beautiful, like spun gold in the sunlight, but it isn’t—it’s not what he wants.

“That’s me,” she says cheerfully. “Prompto? Pawpaw said that you’ve been real persistent.”

“I’ve had to be,” Prompto says, grim, but Cindy refuses to let him disturb her.

“That’s why we asked the Hunters ‘round here to give us some info,” she replies, smiling. “C’mon. They’re at Takka’s.”

“Alright.” He follows her to the small diner, and when they step inside, an old man scowls at him.’

“You’re the person that they sent?” he asks grouchily, and Prompto would be offended but King Regis had told him that Cid was grumpy. Like, really grumpy. Grumpy to the extreme.

“Yup,” he only says, then looks at the man in the vest. “And you’re…”

“Dave,” the man says with a small smile. “I’m the head Hunter. I heard you were looking for someone?”

Prompto nods, unlocking his phone, pulling up a photo of Noctis, and holding it out. Dave takes it, squinting at the screen, and Prompto sits down on a stool. He tries not to overthink the way Dave is looking at his phone, or the way Cindy is watching him, a sympathetic twist to her lips, because if he did then he would probably start to scream. Instead, he merely glances at Dave, and tries to guess what the Hunter thinks about the picture.

Noctis is grinning in that one, one hand holding a fishing line that has a fish on the hook, and the other gripping the rim of his hat. It’s one of Prompto’s favorite pictures of him; he looks so happy and enthusiastic, and Prompto can sometimes pretend that he’s the one who took it. He doesn’t know how he’ll feel if someone looks at Noctis and says he’s dead.

He might have a complete breakdown. Never fun.

Dave sighs. “Well…I can tell ya one thing.” He hands the phone back. “That’s definitely Orion. One of the youngest Hunters we have, and damn good with a sword too.”

Prompto brightens. “Really?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen a man so excited about fishin’.” He rolls his eyes. “He caught the Liege of the Lake, apparently. Navyth was yellin’ at the top of his lungs about it. He was gonna track ‘im down and see if he could catch the ‘Devil of the Cygillian.’” He frowns. “But…he disappeared about a year ago. We don’t know where he went.”

“You—“ Prompto stares at him. “You don’t know where he went?”

Cid crosses his arms. “No, we don’t. He didn’t come here at all. Probably knew that we’d know who he was,” he says bitterly. “We only knew that he was probably out here by all the searches.”

Prompto slumps over, shoulders curling inwards. Dammit. How is he supposed to find Noct _now?_

“We can give you the info of the people he did talk to,” Dave says suddenly, his hand on the counter curling into a fist. He’s angry, Prompto realizes, and he isn’t sure why.

“Okay?” he says hesitantly, and Dave gives him a strained smile, grabbing the pad of paper that Cid slid over to him.

“He was…well, Orion—or, well, His Highness—he stuck to himself. So it’s not a big list,” Dave tells him even as he’s writing down names and places, so many that he has to flip to another page. “But there’s a few. There’s Ron—he usually lurks around Lestallum. And Michael. He’s near Costlemark Tower, actually. Dunno why—just said that he likes it there. Don’t understand him. Coeurls are always around there.” He sighs. “Alice is…I don’t know where she is. But I heard Orion told her to stay away from The Vesperpool and she’s never been good at following advice so…” He shrugs as he holds out the papers. “Might wanna check that.”

Prompto takes them, folding them carefully and putting them in his jacket pocket. “Thanks. Is there—is there anything else I need to know?”

Dave shakes his head. “I’m not sure. Like I said, I never really talked to ‘im. Made sure to avoid me.” He pauses. “... He did—he did talk to Ezma. She gave him a key. He went into Steyliff Grove and came out alive. He said that he killed the quetzalcoatl, which not even a king and Oracle could do.”

“That’s…”

“Yeah.”

Cid snorts. “He’s Reggie’s son alright.”

Prompto grins at that.

* * *

It’s surprisingly hard to find Ron. He’s not in Lestallum—for some reason he’s _on the Rock of Ravatogh._ Prompto hates him and he hasn’t ever met him.

He finds the guy sitting on a ledge, looking down on a large bowl thing. There’s a gun on his hip, a sword on his back that Prompto recognizes as one from the armory in the Citadel, and a pair of daggers strapped to his thighs. He looks dangerous but Prompto has seen Ignis without his Ebony for two days so he doesn’t think anything can scare him anymore. His eyes are sharp, though—like Nyx’s now that he thinks about it—and it’s startling to see.

“Who’re you,” he asks gruffly. Prompto sits down beside him.

“Ron, right?” At his nod, Prompto continues. “I’ve heard you know this Hunter named Orion?”

Instantly, all of Ron’s attention is on him. It’s mildly unnerving, to have all of that intense focus on him. He didn’t think that anyone could have that stare other than Cor and maybe Clarus. His face is handsome, though; dark eyes the color of storms and a three-o’clock shadow on his cheeks, but Prompto has been ruined for everyone by Noctis’ regal features that are somehow handsome and adorable, so he doesn’t look at it for long.

“What do ya want him for?” he says slowly, a threat in his voice, but Prompto only shrugs. Pulls out the photo he printed of Noct at Hammerhead then hands it over as he leans back on his hands to look at the sky. Ron looks at the picture for a long moment, a grimace pulling at his lips, before sighing. It’s a familiar sigh. Ezma had given him the same one.

_(“You’re the boy Dave sent?” the old woman demands, and Prompto has the feeling that she is hiding a gun under her clothes. Scary thought._

_“I am,” he says instead. “I assume you know what I’m looking for?”_

_“You’re looking for that brat,” Ezma grumps. She seems like a grumpy woman. She and Cid would get along splendidly. “Orion?”_

_“Yep.” Prompto leans against the railing. “He’s Prince Noctis.”_

_Ezma scoffs. “You don’t think I know that?” she says waspishly. “I’m old but not that old.”_

_“So you know where he went?”_

_Ezma pulls out a key. It’s big and golden and clunky and she waves it at him. “I gave him this key. He defeated all the monsters hidden under Lucis and then gave it back to me. I haven’t seen him since.”_

_“How long ago was it?” Prompto asks, slightly exasperated. “Like, when did you last see him?”_

_She gives him a cold look, and when he refuses to cower, gives a sigh. “Sixteen months.”_

_Prompto’s head drops into his hands.)_

“You’re sure that Orion is the prince?” Ron asks, sounding resigned. Prompto gives him a solemn nod. He groans and hands the photo back. “Well, shit.”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” Prompto agrees. “So? Any idea?”

Ron shakes his head. “He came to me about a year ago and handed me this sword.” He gestures towards his back. “And these daggers. Handed me an entire bag of spells, too. Then he said see you later and left. Haven’t seen him since.”

“For the love of _Ramuh,”_ Prompto hisses. “Where the hell is he?”

Ron pats his shoulder. “One thing I’ve learned about Orion,” he says, “is that if he doesn’t want to be found, then he won’t be. He’ll find you.”

“Well,” Prompto says loudly. “I’m going to be the first.”

Ron snorts. “Good luck with _that.”_

“I’ve run on luck my entire life,” he says cheerfully. “I don’t think it’ll abandon me now.” He gets to his feet. “Well, I’m gonna find Alice. Maybe she’ll have an idea.”

Ron hums. “Well, I think that he left Lucis. He was talking about the ocean.”

“Accordo?”

“Maybe.”

Prompto frowns but waves goodbye and makes his way down the mountain. He drives up to the Vesperpool, only stopping when it gets dark, and it takes, like, two days to do so. Even on the third day, the time he finally gets there it’s three in the afternoon, and he left at dawn. There’s a woman talking with the man behind the counter at the fishing shack, and that’s probably Alice.

Her hair is dark brown, falling down her shoulders in tight curls, and her eyes are green and bright. She’s beautiful, with her bright smile and the way she carries herself. Prompto closes the door to the car and walks over, careful to let his feet step on twigs and dead leaves. Her eyes dart over to him, fingers curling around the handles of the daggers strapped to her waist. They’re Kingsglaive quality. Prompto gives her a sunny smile and calls out, “Hey! Alice, right?”

She gives him a suspicious look but relaxes nonetheless. “I am,” she replies. “Who’re you?”

“Prompto Argentum.” He pulls out a small cake wrapped in plastic wrap and tosses it over. It’s carrot cake—her favorite, according to Ron. She catches it easily, face brightening when she recognizes it. “I heard you might know where Orion is.”

Alice snorts, unwrapping the cake. “Who does, nowadays. Kid disappeared off the face of Eos.” The fishing shack man nods.

“He hasn’t been here for months,” he says, voice deep and calm. “Which is weird—he loved fishing here.”

Prompto sighs. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “So you absolutely don’t know?”

She shakes her head. “Nope.” Then, she hesitates. “...Might want to ask Michael, though. I think he was the last person to see him.”

Prompto sighs. “Thanks.”

Alice gives him a sympathetic smile, the same kind as Ron, and waves when he turns back towards the car.

It takes him a whole week to get to Costlemark Tower. A man is sitting on top of a stone column, relaxed despite the height. Prompto, personally, would be freaking out. He hates heights.

“Argentum,” he drawls, “right.”

It’s not a question.

“Yup,” Prompto returns. He comes to a stop right before it, crossing his arms and looking up. “You’re Michael?”

“What do you think?” Michael asks, reaching out to grab a branch and climb down. “You’re looking for Orion. Or rather, Prince Noctis.”

He has that same edge of danger of Ignis, with the easy grace Gladio has despite his size. “Yeah,” he says, refusing to be intimidated. “Do you know where he is?”

The gun that’s strapped to his chest is definitely a Quicksilver gun—one that Noct took from the armory. Prompto has one better than that; he has Death Penalty tucked away in the Armiger.

Michael snorts. His hair is long and kept in braids, his skin dark and his eyes darker. He’s big, too, towering over Prompto and with the same muscles he has. “I know where he is.” He tilts his head. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because I’m going to bring him home,” Prompto says, holding his ground, giving Michael a glare. “Now where is he?”

“Altissia,” Michael says after a beat. “He’s a drifter, that one; nobody could get him to stay still.” He closes his eyes, pain flickering across his face. “Not even me.”

Prompto knows that tone. He knows it, because he’s used the same one. Michael is in love with Noctis, and, hell, maybe Noctis accepted it. But he left, and the thought makes something like vicious satisfaction burn in him. 

“I see,” he says instead of crowing in victory. “Thanks. I’ll make sure you see him again.”

“That would be appreciated,” Michael replies on the edge of a sigh, turning back towards Costlemark Tower. “Go ahead, bring him back. I can’t promise he’ll stay.”

“I’ll give him a reason to stay.”

At least, he hopes.

* * *

Niflheim is cold as _fuck,_ Noctis thinks grumpily, and wonders how he ever forgot it. He knows what happened to Shiva—everyone does. From a desert nation to a frozen tundra…Niflheim has never done anything in moderation.

He tucks his chin under the collar of his coat, shivering. The gloves Nuncio shoved into his hands are thick and warm but it doesn’t hold up against Shiva’s wrath. He’s near the center of Niflheim, Zegnautaus Keep looming overhead, and the towns around it are abandoned. He knows exactly why.

Ardyn decided to gallivant across the world after Altissia, or so he heard from frustrated citizens. Either way, he won’t be here any time soon; apparently, the Chancellor hates coming to Gralea. Noctis can understand why; in the time he spent in the Crystal, he saw how Niflheim treated him. They poked and prodded and Ardyn just _let them._ He honestly cheered when Ardyn stood up for himself.

Still, Niflheim is _freezing,_ and he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to live here. Like, ever. Why. It’s terrible.

Zegnautus Keep looms overhead, a flying fortress made of steel and death and misery. Noctis squints up at it, wondering how the hell he’s going to get into it, and decides that they’ll have to land at some point. Probably. Hopefully. If not, then he’ll have to find a way to warp there, and _that’s_ gonna be hard to do.

Godsdammit, he fucking hates Niflheim.

Still, he can’t do anything if Zegnautus Keep doesn’t come at least a little closer to the ground, so he holds his hands to his cheeks and thinks. If the towns here are empty, then he won’t be safe from daemons if he stays there. Still, there must be a haven somewhere. Before Niflheim became power hungry, Lucis had a flourishing relationship with it. Tenebrae had been able to send their Oracle over in order to grant her power to create havens, to protect the people. It was ages ago, but if the power hasn’t faded in Lucis, then it shouldn’t have faded in Niflheim.

He trudges through the snow, shivering the entire time, and wanders the woods. The sun is getting low in the sky, which means that daemons are going to be forming soon. He can handle a few imps. But an iron giant? No fucking way.

There aren't any havens. He can see where they used to be—empty stretches of land, rocks with runes carved with care into them, but they’re gone. Destroyed, he thinks darkly; only Niflheim would get rid of the things that could keep their people safe. 

Still, the Oracle and Lucis magic have always been intertwined, always been connected, and he can feel the faint warmth of a haven. It’s like a string, like something in his core tugging him forward, and he turns east. He stumbles a few times over the remains of a haven, but the promise of safety keeps him going. His ability to sense havens is one that Ignis praised when they were traveling, when they were not strong enough to drive in the night. Prompto had called him a GPS tracker.

It takes him a while; it feels like hours, even if it’s probably only twenty minutes, but by the time he reaches a cave beside a frozen lake, there’s only a sliver of sunlight over the horizon. Noctis stomps into the haven, sitting down by the ethereal fire. It’s warm. Hot, almost, and he tears off his gloves to hold them over it. Immediately, he can feel magic curl its way under his skin, cleaning him of any daemon, and he breathes out mist.

“Luna, what am I doing here?” he asks the empty cave and his heart aches at the thought of her. She was one of his closest friends, and the fact that she was killing herself to make the covenants, that she died at Ardyn’s hand when Noctis was right there but unconscious, exhausted by his use of the Armiger, it—

Well. It felt like his world had come apart at the seams.

He doesn’t get an answer. He didn’t expect to get one, but the silence that hangs around him is heavy. Heavy and near unbearable, but…Noctis is used to that. After the Crystal, after he avoided other people in the year he was in Lucis, he got used to the quiet. To the way that space felt when there wasn’t someone else around.

He pulls his knees to his chest, leaning back until his head hits rock. Cold wind blows through the entrance, but the gentle magic of the Oracle keeps it away. Noctis reaches into his pocket after a while, sleepy despite the cold, and pulls out the phone he bought in Insomnia. It’s an old, cheap model, but it is enough. He can call and text, and that’s really all he needs it for.

It also has maps. He opens the app and allows it to narrow in on his location before zooming out. There’s nothing on there, expect for havens long since gone; nothing he didn’t expect. But there’s a livestream from Zegnautus Keep hidden in there, something not a lot of people can find; it’s probably Ravus, now that he thinks about it.

Gralea is a bustling city, similar to Insomnia, but Zegnautus Keep is different. Ravus knows this, and he’s most likely doing it to try and fuck over Niflheim. It doesn’t have any sound, but Noctis can see that it’s trying to dock into—something. Not Gralea, but some other military base, and when he checks their coordinates, he finds it’s near his. Noctis smiles, checking the time. Two a.m. If he moves now, he should be able to warp onto the landing before it empties of everyone but MTs. And, after everything, he’s gotten good at stealth killing MTs. As long as he doesn’t think of them being clones and instead daemons forced into machines, he’ll be fine. It’s called compartmentalizing. It’s great.

Noctis gets to his feet, grimacing as he sticks his head out of the cave entrance. In the night, it’s gotten even _colder,_ if that were at all possible, and he immediately wants to retreat back to the fire. Still, he can’t do that; this is his chance. Who knows, maybe even the emperor will be there. That would make things easier.

He tugs the hat down further upon his head until it covers his ears, pulls the gloves back on his hands, and aims a wary stare at the snow-covered ground. “Nothing should be under there,” he warns. “I am not afraid to throw a Fira.”

There is no response. Noctis nods smugly to himself, satisfied that his threat has been accepted, and marches out of the cave. He is immediately hit by a bitingly cold wind, and Noctis squints against it. By Bahamut’s _sword_ , how does anyone live here?

To be fair, he thinks, it’s not like they’re willingly going out at night. Still, Shiva’s wrath sucks. Like, yeah, it was punishment, but did it _have_ to be so cold?

He spares a single, vengeful thought towards Shiva—damn her and her ability to make him do what she wanted. She learned well from Ardyn…or did Ardyn learn from her? Which came first; the chicken or the egg?

Noctis has to chuckle at the thought; Shiva would be so offended that he compared her to Ardyn. That’s why he did it. He needs to find his joy in the small things.

Zegnautus Keep is hovering above the forest, LED lights bright enough against the snow that Noctis flinches and has to cover his eyes for a moment. He scowls at it darkly, moving over to a large pine tree and hiding behind it. He doesn’t know if they’ll let MTs out or not. When it only moves, slow but steady, Noctis follows. He keeps to the shadows, the way Ignis taught him when they were younger and training was disguised as hide and seek, and the lights are enough to keep the prowling daemons at bay. 

It takes another thirty minutes before it reaches its designation. At that point, Noctis feels like he’s going to lose his damn fingers, but he keeps quiet, keeps steady as soldiers begin to bark orders, scientists walk out of Zegnautus Keep, MT guards not a step behind. Ravus is the last out, and he looks so young that Noctis has to press a hand against his chest in order to breathe. He looks so fucking young, and yet he looks so _tired,_ and Noctis remembers, abruptly, that Ravus was the one who found Luna’s body.

Ravus glances around, silver hair pulled back into a ponytail, dressed in a casual uniform, but there’s something sharp and hungry in his expression, and Noctis doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare to; even though Noctis has years of experience on him, Ravus is a war child, bred and true. He protected Luna from that reality, but Ravus entered their military at the age of twelve. War is all he has ever known, and Noctis won’t stand a chance against him. Ravus learned to fight dirty when his back was against the wall, and Noctis wouldn’t be able to truly fight back. Not when he still has the memory of Ravus’ pleas for him to just let him die, to put him out of his misery. He wouldn’t—or rather, he couldn’t.

Still, the fact that Noctis doesn’t reveal himself means that Ravus relaxes. It makes some of the harsh lines around his mouth smooth away, even though Noctis knows they will be there. The war is speeding up, and Ravus is feeling the heat; he needs to keep his sister safe, but he also needs to please his superiors. It’s stressful, and Noctis isn’t surprised his face had settled into an automatic frown by the time Noctis turned twenty.

Ravus leaves, stalking into the military base, and Noctis takes a breath. Then another. Waits for the count of thirty, and when nothing comes out, when the lights in Zegnautus Keep dim, he moves. Small warps, silent warps, things that move faster than cameras can register. He darts into the Magitek research facility just as the doors close, and immediately hides in a small alcove. His phone is on silent, he’s done this before, they cannot find him.

An MT walks by, footsteps heavy and clanking against the metal floor. Noctis’ lips twitch down as the smooth, manufactured face of it doesn’t even look at him. It’s—disturbing, to think about Prompto being forced into one of those. How close he was to _being_ one of them.

_("Thanks, guys. Still…I can’t change where I came from. What I am." Prompto looks crushed, like he's doubting who he is, and even though Noctis can't blame him, the sight of it makes his heart twist._

_He takes a step forward. "Since when does where you come from matter to you?_ _"_

_"Huh?"_

_Noctis raises an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching into a smile. "You never once treated me as a prince." He can't even begin to tell him how much that meant to him; he doesn't think he'll ever be able to._

_Gladio snorts. "He’s got you there."_

_Ignis inclines his head, voice warm. "Never so much as a Highness."_

_Prompto's starting to look overwhelmed, but this has been a long time coming. Noctis gives a small bow, almost mockingly, but Prompto's eyes are bright and he knows that his best friend didn't take it badly. 'We’re done here. C’mon, crown citizen.")_

Noctis shakes his head. No, he can’t lose himself in memories. Another other time—maybe. But not now, not when he’s in Zegnautus Keep.

Still…it’s full of bad memories. He can still see illusions of Prompto tied to a chair, can still hear his calls for help. It makes his stomach twist.

“Okay, Noctis,” he murmurs, taking off his winter clothes. Ultimately, it will only make everything harder. “You can do this. Just go to the engines and destroy it.”

A little piece of rebellion, maybe, but this place is seen as the pinnacle of Niflehim’s might. If he brings it down, then he’ll shake the emperor. Shake the government, down to the foundations, down to its core, and that will make it that much easier to stage an uprising.

Ha. Wouldn’t that be fun.

Noctis slips out of his hiding place, running down the hall and turning right. In his head, he’s bringing up the map that he saw when he was here the first time; the engines are in the back, near the bottom…and it’s through the clone stores. Just the thought makes him sick.

But, no. No. He needs to do this. For his own peace of mind, and for the memory of Prompto that he has, pale and afraid at the truth behind his existence. 

…Fuck. He won’t be able to destroy this. All the clones in it—if he does, then he won’t be able to sleep without seeing Prompto falling to the ground. Godsdammit. What is he going to do now?

Noctis grunts, switching directions. Instead of going towards the engines, he heads for the navigation. There’s clones everywhere, but if he programs it to head to Gralea, then—

Well. Emperor Aldercapt won’t put up much of a fight.

His desperate sprint slows to a walk as the eerie glow of clone containers washes over him. He stops, heart in his throat, as Prompto—no, it’s not Prompto, it can’t be Prompto, he’s safe in Insomnia—floats in front of him. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, tubes connected to his skin pumping daemon blood into him. His veins are black, and he’s just—just there. Like he doesn’t exist beyond being an experiment.

Noctis takes one step forward. Then another, one hand coming up to touch the glass. This is—this is what he wanted to stop, two years in the future and yet over a decade ago. This isn’t right. This isn’t what they deserve. Any of them. They’re _humans._

Others might disagree, but…Noctis knows—knew—Prompto, and he was the most human person he has ever met. He cried over Chocobos, laughed until he wheezed, complained when he got hungry, got concerned when Noctis was in pain, got scared when they were up against an Iron Giant but still fought, and—

These clones are people. They’re versions of Prompto. Any one of them could have been him, once upon a time.

His fingers curl into a fist against the glass as he hangs his head. Dammit. He can’t—he can’t just leave them here.

He slams his fist against the pod. It trembles but holds and it only makes his rage burn even more, until he feels like he can breathe fire. “Fuck!” he shouts, baring his teeth at his reflection. “Why am I such a fucking bleeding heart?”

The clone doesn’t answer; he can’t. He only stays silent, unconscious, sedated into submission, and he can’t even see his eyes. Noctis has to wonder if they would be blue with flecks of violet like Prompto’s, or if they would be a pure blue like Besithia’s. 

Noctis narrows his eyes at the wires and IVs running into the pod, and grits his teeth. He gets behind the pod, bracing his shoulder against the pod and pushing. It shakes, leans forward, and the wires snap. The IV slips out of his skin, corrosive daemon blood filling the tank, and the clone’s arm twitches. Noctis grins, fierce and bright, and summons his polearm, sticking it between the wall and the pod, just for some added pressure. He braces his feet against the glass, his hands against the wall, and _pushes._

The container falls, Noctis dismissing his polearm into the Armiger as the glass shatters upon impact. The clone lands on the glass shards, black blood spilling sluggishly upon the floor, and Noctis kneels beside him, summoning some clothes with a wave of his hand. They’re warm clothes; the type that he would wear in Lucis when it’s winter. Zegnautus Keep does have heating.

The clone makes a small noise, coughing up the weird fluid, and shaking, shaking, shaking. Noctis gently picks him up, stepping over the glass and trying to soothe him. He’s confused. The daemon blood in him is already burning the sedatives out. Noctis sets him down away from the glass, shifting so that he’s the only thing the clone can see, putting the clothes next to him. The clone opens his eyes, and they’re amber, same as Ardyn.

Noctis refuses to frown. He only smiles, summoning a rag and a bottle of water, getting the rag wet and wiping the green thing off of his face. “Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m Noctis.”

The clone flinches away. He expects pain, Noctis realizes, and smothers the spark of fury that comes to life. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says in Niflheim tongue, and it’s rusty, but understandable. The clone stares at him, breathing unsteady, and Noctis brushes his hair away from his eyes. “It’s okay.”

The clone opens his mouth, then closes it. He can’t speak. Noctis summons an elixir and breaks it. The magic sinks into the clone’s skin, healing deep set injuries, but the cuts from the glass don’t disappear. Noctis narrows his eyes and breaks a hi-elixir. This time, all the wounds fade away. The clone stares in disbelief as it happens, looking up at him. He makes a small sound; a question.

“It is a way to heal you,” he says, in clunky Nifliene. “I brought you clothes.”

The clone doesn’t seem to understand. Noctis sighs and carefully lifts his arms up. He slips the thick sweatshirt over him, gently tugging it down, and the clone doesn’t move on his own will the entire time. It’s like Noctis is dressing a doll.

He quickly puts the boxers and sits back on his heels. The clone sits there, blinking, seemingly in shock at the softness of the sweatshirt. It’s a bright yellow, one that he bought from Wiz, and it fits him. Noctis smiles.

“I am leaving,” he says. “I will take you with me.”

The clone doesn’t seem to know what to do with this. He really needs a name, but Noctis doesn’t really have the time to think about that right now, because an MT is walking closer on a routine patrol. Noctis gathers the clone into his arms, and hurries around the corner. The MT keeps on going, not noticing the utter mess on the floor, and Noctis glances back, the clone still looking bewildered. 

“Luck held out,” Noctis breathes in the common tongue, and then starts walking briskly to the navigation center. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, honestly, but Aldercapt probably isn’t here, otherwise the entire place would be on lockdown. He’s paranoid as hell.”

It takes longer than Noctis would like, but they eventually reach the navigation center. At least he learned that the clone could understand the common tongue.

Noctis sets the clone down, ruffles his hair, and warp-kills the MT overlooking the controls. Noctis catches it before it crashes onto the ground, and casts a quick glance over the coordinates. Dammit, it’s not going to Gralea. Noctis huffs and changes the route, inputting the coordinates for Gralea and choosing the dock closest to the castle.

A small noise, and Noctis looks back over his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?”

The clone nods his head, pointing at the MT. Noctis sighs. “Listen…it needed to happen.”

The clone shakes his head. He pointed again, first at the MT and then at his own wrist. Noctis frowns. “Well, yeah, it has a barcode. All MTs do. You have one because you were going to become an MT. But that isn’t going to happen now.”

The clone looks frustrated, then visibly gives up. Noctis smiles and checks how long it will take to get to Gralea. About five hours…they should get some sleep. Noctis picks the clone up again, casting his eyes about for a place to rest. It’s hidden away in a corner, but there’s a bed. Noctis sets the clone down on the bed, placing the heavy blanket on him before crawling in next to him. The clone stiffens, but Noctis pulls him close, tucking his head under his chin, and says, “Sleep. We’re going to need it.”

The clone settles, and Noctis’ last thought before he passes out is, _I think Savis would fit._

* * *

When Zegnautus Keep arrives in Gralea, Noctis is already awake. He’s had to learn, over the last few years, how to sleep lightly. He only slept well when there was someone with him—come to think of it, Michael told him to stay over a lot. He should’ve taken him up on it.

The clone—Savis, Noctis decides—slowly rises, still tired. Noctis pats his cheek and grabs warmer clothes from the Arimriger. “We’re here. Get dressed and we’ll leave. I’ll come back for the others, okay?”

Savis gives him a long look that is somehow reminiscent of Ignis that Noctis grumbles and turns away. There’s shuffling behind him, and Noctis changes into his own winter clothes as well. He doesn’t exactly trust Gralea to be warm.

Savis taps his shoulder, looking outside. Noctis follows his gaze and frowns darkly at the crowd gathering outside. “Well, shit,” he murmurs. Savis tilts his head in confusion at the word. Noctis gives him a smile, ruffles his hair, and stands. “Don’t worry about it. C’mon, we gotta go.”

Savis wrinkles his nose but gets up too; Noctis takes his hand and drags him out of the room. He avoids the clone rooms; if he didn’t, then he would be staging an entire prison break, and he does not have the time for that.

Savis is looking back, though, expression twisted, and Noctis sighs. “We’ll come back for them, I promise. But we need to leave right now.” Savis still doesn’t look happy, but he lets Noctis take him to the back. There’s a small exit there; an emergency one, sure, but it’s small enough that they can fit through. Savis sighs, almost inaudibly, but climbs down. Noctis keeps an eye out for anyone behind them, then slips down after him. Savis is waiting, lips pressed into a thin line, the same way Prompto’s did when he was anxious and trying not to show it, and Noctis practically melts.

“I’m not leaving,” he says softly, pulling a hat out of the Armiger and putting it on Savis’ head. “Don’t worry. You aren’t going back there.” He glances around. “But we have to leave. Niflheim is coming and we don’t want to get caught.”

He takes Savis’ hand and pulls him to the buildings around them. It’s not that hard to hide; MTs are programmed to only do what they are told. They don’t think to look behind things. Savis crouches beside him, eyes flinty and cold, and when the MTs disappear around the corner, they run in the other direction—towards Gralea.

It’s different from Insomnia. Instead of bustling streets, filled with color and noise, it’s—quiet. There’s only red and white, like all colors have been drained. People don’t linger in front of any stores; they buy what they need and hurry away. They’re dressed in clothes that are worn and not good enough for the weather, and they’re wary. MTs stand sentinel at the end of streets, hands on their guns. It’s a silent threat, one that the people know to follow. Noctis ducks his head, trying to breathe through the horror that sits heavy in his stomach. He knew—he knew that Niflheim was bad. He knew that its citizens weren’t in the best position, but he didn’t know it was this bad.

“Alicia,” a woman whispers to her daughter, “come along, now. We don’t have time to stay.”

“But, Mom,” Alicia complains, “we have time until the curfew!”

“Honey, the emperor—he has ordered us to go home. Come on.”

Alicia struggles, but when the MT turns slightly towards her, her face turns white and she hides behind her mother’s legs. Noctis narrows his eyes, watching as the streets empty. Businesses close, and the MTs stay. What is going on…?

“I heard Captain Highwind has returned,” a man says as he passes them. “Colonel Fleuret came back with her.”

“Didn’t they just leave for a mission?” his friend asks, casting a fearful glance at the MT.

“Yes. Something happened, though.”

Noctis casts a glance up at the looming castle, a symbol of corruption, and glances back at Savis, who only blinks at him. Aranea would help him, he knows it. Ravus would, too. They both hate Niflheim—or, at least, hate what it does. If he makes a good enough deal, maybe—

A knife whispers at his throat. Cold steel presses against his skin, and Noctis’ eyes snap back in front of him. Biggs stands in front of him, Wedge just a step behind, and Noctis pushes Savis behind him as he slowly stands. Biggs pulls the knife back, watching him with cold eyes, and Noctis clears his throat. Tries for a smile.

“Hey.”

“What are ya doin’ here,” Biggs growls out, “Your Highness?”

Noctis’ smile twitches. “Just passing through.”

Wedge blinks slowly as Savis peers over Noctis’ shoulder. “You have a clone.”

Noctis snarls. “His name is Savis.”

Biggs snorts. “Typical for a Lucian, a name like that.” He tilts his head. “But for some reason, Lady A wants to talk to ya.”

“Yeah? What for?” Noctis asks, a Fira slipping into his palm. “I mean, if someone from the Niflheim military wants to talk to me, it’s probably to kill me.”

Wedge rolls his eyes and Biggs scoffs. “Lady A ain’t like that. Follow us, and your clone won’t get hurt.”

Noctis bristles, a sword appearing in a flash of light. “Don’t you touch him,” he snaps, and Biggs smiles, wolf-like.

“We won’t if you do as we say,” he says, and turns on his heel, stalking away. Wedge waits for them to trail after his partner, then brings up the rear. Savis clings to his hand with a death grip, eyes wide and frightened, and Noctis wraps an arm around his shoulders. Pulls him close, humming a song that always calmed Prompto down, his magic sparking down Savis’ back. It’s warm, and protective, and Savis practically melts into his hold. Noctis smiles slightly but remains tense, ready to fight. He doesn’t know if Aranea is under orders to kill him, or if she just wants to talk, and he isn’t willing to risk Savis over it.

By the time they reach a small building, Noctis is stretched as taut as a bowstring.

Wedge moves past them, opening the door. Aranea’s voice shouts, “You back? You have him?”

“Yes, Lady A,” Biggs calls back, pushing them through the door. Noctis goes, Savis remaining quiet, and he exchanges his sword for a gun. Quicker, and easier to use when he has someone in his arms. Aranea is sitting at a table, dressed in casual clothes and her hair done in a loose braid. Still, her gaze is sharp and her lance isn’t far behind 

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, “if it isn’t His Highness, Prince Noctis.”

“Call me Orion,” Noctis says lowly. “We don’t know who is listening.”

Aranea scoffs. “Nobody is listening; I value my privacy.” She waves a hand at the two empty chairs as Biggs and Wedge come to stand behind her. “Go on, sit. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Where’s Ravus?” Noctis shoots back, Savis grumbling a bit at how tight his hold has gotten. “I know he’s here.”

Aranea’s sharp, deadly grin widens. “Clever, clever. He’s in the other room. Now, _sit._ We need to talk business.”

Noctis sits, one hand a death grip around Savis’ wrist. “What business?”

“Do you know the reward your father has set?” Aranea asks conversationally. “I think it’s the entire treasury. A trillion Gil, as a start, and he’s willing to pay whatever else you want if you bring his son back.” She leans back in her chair. “And here his son is. Right in front of me. Now, tell me why I shouldn’t just hand you over to Lucis. Or, hell, my superiors. That will get me up two ranks, at least.”

Noctis’ heart pounds in his ears. “I—“

“Not to mention, you somehow know about the clones,” Aranea continues. “I mean, you came from Zegnautus Keep, right? There’s a big fuss going on right about now, about a destroyed pod and a dead MT. So what’s going on, Prince? Care to enlighten me?”

Savis frowns at her. “N...H…” He scowls at his own inability to speak. “S...Sa…”

“He saved you?” Aranea asks, slightly disbelieving. “What, were you slated for decommission?”

Savis nods. Noctis forces back his fury and squeezes his hand. Savis glances at him thankfully. “Savis is a clone but he’s human. I couldn’t just—leave him there.”

Aranea narrows her eyes at him, then flicks her wrist at Biggs. He nods and leaves the room. “You see the clones as real people?”

“They are real people,” Noctis snaps back. “Just because they’re clones doesn’t mean they aren’t _human.”_

“You do realize what’s going into them?” Aranea challenges, and he rolls his eyes.

“That doesn’t matter. Savis is—he’s human. I couldn’t leave him there.”

“Stupidly optimistic as always, Noctis.” Noctis twists his head around to see Ravus step into the room, still in his military uniform. “Then again, I shouldn't’ have expected anything less.”

“Ravus,” Noctis breathes. “I—“

“Save it,” Ravus snarls. “I’m only here to see if there’s a threat to Lunafreya.”

“There isn’t. I just—“

“Just what?” Biggs demands. “You thought to just waltz into enemy territory for what? A clone?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“Because I’m going to kill the emperor!”

Aranea blinks. “You’re going to what?”

Noctis takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m going to kill the emperor. I’m going to end this war.”

“You’ve been missing for three years, and you only just now decided to do something?” Ravus scoffs, crossing his arms. “Of course.”

“It—it took me a bit to work up the will to do it,” Noctis says quietly. Savis hums, a broken imitation of the tune Noctis gave him earlier, and his shoulders slump. “I just—I can’t sit on the sidelines anymore. I had to hide from so many MTs, and—and I had to listen to how my dad’s health is failing, and—“

“Okay, kid. We get it.” Wedge lays a hand on his back; a gentle touch, one that’s so out of place in the atmosphere that he jumps. “You want to kill the emperor. What are you gonna do after? How are you gonna handle the rest of the army?”

“I—“

“You didn’t even think that far?” Ravus frowns. “Typical of your line.”

“No, I—I thought you guys would help me. I know that there aren't a lot of actual humans in the Niflheim military, and with Ardyn gone…”

“And General Glauca is dead,” Aranea murmurs. “This is probably the best time to do it, huh?”

Relieved, Noctis nods. “Yeah. I know that you hate Niflheim and I just—I thought that you could help me.”

“I’m not,” Ravus says instantly. “If I help, Lunafreya will be left defenseless.”

“She isn’t a helpless little girl, y’know.” Noctis sighs. “Listen, they can’t kill her. She’s the Oracle, the last of her line. The sheer public outrage that would cause would be enough for concern. But if you help me, then Tenebrae will gain full autonomy.”

“How are you going to ensure that?” Aranea asks, eyes bright with something that might be help.

Noctis gives her a helpless shrug. “I’m going to become emperor.”

Silence falls at that. Then, Biggs starts chuckling. Aranea begins to laugh, and soon the room is filled with laughter—slightly hysterical, the kind that you let out when there is nothing else you can do—and Noctis sighs.

“I know.”

“Kid, if you do that, you’re gonna be the leader of the world as we know it,” Aranea says, grinning. “But, what the hell. What do we have to lose? I can take down that fucker Loqi, and Ravus can take care of Cailgo.” She slides a look over at Ravus. “Right?”

Ravus scowls. “...Yes, I can. He does not fight often.” Aranea nods in satisfaction.

“That leaves you to take down the emperor. Think you can do it?”

“I know I can,” Noctis promises. “But we need to find a way to take care of the MTs.”

“Leave that to Wedge,” Biggs says dismissively. “He’s a whiz at those sorts of things. So is that it? Are we in agreement?”

“Yes,” Aranea confirms. “Ravus?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Aranea leans forward, hands clasped on the table and something vicious and mean flickers across her face. “Then let's start planning.”

Noctis holds Savis close and laughs, so relieved he’s practically dizzy with it. “Let’s.”

* * *

Prompto is in Altissia when the news hits. It had taken him about a week or so to get to Altissia, and he’s been here for a month when the radios are yelling about—something.

Prompto sticks his head out of his hotel room, watching as people look at each other in shock and a little fear.

“What’s going on?” he asks, leaving his room. A woman glances at him.

“Niflheim has closed its borders. Accordo is on lockdown; nobody can enter, and nobody native can leave.”

“It _what?”_

“I don’t know,” she snaps. “I heard the Oracle is freed, too. Tenebrae is under the leadership of Colonel Ravus. Something is going on in Niflheim and I don’t know if it’s a miracle or a new tactic.”

“I hope it’s not something new,” Prompto murmurs, pulling out his own phone. Already, his notifications are blowing up. Kwehtter is screaming, saying it’s a trap, it’s true, Emperor Aldercapt had a change of heart. Prompto’s eyes widened.

“What the fuck,” he breathes. He goes to the search function and sees that the most popular hashtag is _#Niflheim._

He taps on it and is overloaded by the amount of posts.

**_perpetually confused_ ** _@screamingelmo_

_SO WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING????? DID I HEAR IT RIGHT??? AM I LOSING MY MIND??????????_

**_Aleah @ commissions are open_ ** _@forkinatoaster_

_@screamingelmo NO YOU’RE NOT????_

**_perpetually confused_ ** _@screamingelmo_

_@forkinatoaster did Niflheim really just retreat?!_

**_Mars is cool_ ** _@skeletons458_

_@screamingelmo @forkinatoaster guys check out niflheim’s official kwehhter!!_

**_Aleah @ commissions are open_ ** _@forkinatoaster_

_@skeletons458 Niflheim doesn’t HAVE one???_

**_Uh-oh spaghettios_ ** _@pinsandneedles_

_@forkinatoaster they made one like an hour ago??? It’s so weird. It’s @ is niflheimnation_

**_perpetually confused_ ** _@screamingelmo_

**** _@pinsandneedles omg thank you_

**_Aleah @ commissions are open_ ** _@forkinatoaster_

_@pinsandneedles @skeletons458 @screamingelmo Oh my gods i can’t believe this. Go look at king regis’ account_

Prompto blinks, automatically typing in the king’s profile. Immediately, there is a video. It’s shaky, but high quality, and King Regis obviously doesn’t know that the camera is there.

King Regis is sitting behind his desk, eyes wide, hands shaking as he stares at his tablet. He’s shocked at something, and Prompto starts when King Regis says, voice choked up with tears, _“Noctis?”_

The video ends. Prompto’s mouth drops to the floor. Noctis. Prompto has to stumble towards a chair near him and sink into it, suddenly unable to remain standing. Noctis.

His fingers trembling so hard he can barely type, he puts in Prince Noctis. And posts upon posts crop up.

**_this year is wild wtf_ ** _@tornadosiren_

_YO WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING?! WE GET NEWS ABOUT NIFLHEIM AND THEN ABOUT #PRINCENOCTIS????? HEY @quicksilver WHAT IS GOING ON_

**_Help Prince Noctis ✓_ ** _@quicksilver_

_@tornadosiren I DONT KNOW I JUST WOKE UP_

**_the fitness gram pacer test—_ ** _@baseball4life_

_If even Prompto Argentum doesn’t know then we are doomed._

**_Help Prince Noctis ✓_ ** _@quicksilver_

**** _gi_ _ve me a few minutes and i’ll keep you updated on the #PrinceNoctis situation._

Prompto immediately goes to his contacts and clicks on Ignis’s number. It rings for one second, and Ignis picks up.

“Ignis, what the hell is happening?” Prompto yells, frantic. He ignored the dirty look an old woman gives him. “I woke up and Kwehetter is losing its mind!”

_“I don’t know, Prompto,”_ Ignis replies, sounding stressed. _“We’re still confirming it but—“_

There’s static, like someone took the phone. Then:

_“MTs are retreating,”_ Cor says blandly. _“Niflheim has declared Tenebrae free. Accordo is no longer under Niflheim rule. We don’t know what’s happening.”_

“Shit,” Prompto mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Do you—do you want me to go to Niflheim and see what’s up? Speaking of which, what’s this about Noct?”

_“There has been a sighting of His Highness in Gralea.”_

“Well. Fuck. Now I’m definitely going, no matter what you say.”

Cor snorts. _“I already knew that, you brat. I’ll send a plane for you.”_

_“Or,”_ Prompto says pointedly, “I could just take the boat I already have.”

There is a split second of silence, and then he can hear Gladio laughing so hard he’s snorting in the background. Prompto smirks—he can never get Gladio to laugh very hard—and Cor groans.

_“Fine, fine. Be back in a month. Or else.”_

“Or else what?” Prompto asks, feeling bold.

_“Or I’ll send Ignis.”_

He promptly deflates. “Yes, sir.”

_“Thank you, Marshal, for saying that,”_ Ignis says, defeated. _“But I have to agree, Prompto. We do not know the current political situation; it is as though Niflheim has experienced a blackout. There is no information coming in and no information coming out. Please be careful.”_

Prompto rolls his eyes. “I will be.” He pauses. “I’ll bring him home, okay?”

He can practically feel Ignis’ smile. _“I know.”_

The call ends and Prompto runs a hand through his hair. Okay. So, he has the passport of official Lucis business. He can do this. He just has to dress the part, right? He nods to himself once and goes to his room.

It doesn’t take long to get ready; he just throws his dirty clothes into a duffel bag, tosses everything else into his suitcase, and dismisses them both into the Armiger. He’s already dressed for the day—he had intended to talk with the people around Altissia again to see if they remembered anything—so it isn’t much of a trouble.

Prompto looks himself in the mirror and slaps his cheeks. “You can do this,” he tells himself firmly. “You have to.”

He checks out and then makes his way down to the docks; the people of Altissia are humming with near excitement, and he has to fight his way to his boat.

“Did you hear? Captain Highwind was part of it!”

“No way! What about Colonel Fleuret?”

“I don’t know…”

“Excuse me!” Prompto shouts over the noise. “Excuse me! I need to leave!”

A man standing guard at the toll squints at him. “Are ya a citizen of Accordo?”

“No!” Prompto shakes his head. “Lucis!”

The man nods. “I see. Well, c’mere. We’ll get ya sorted out.”

Prompto gives him a grateful nod and shoves his way through the crowd, stopping right in front of him. “Thanks. Is there anything I need to pay?”

The man gives him a wide grin. “Not today, son! Today, Accordo is free!”

Prompto chuckles weakly as he gets handed the key. “Yeah.”

The man laughs at his back as Prompto makes his way to the boat. It’s King Regis’ old one, and it took a week or so to get it into working condition. Now he just has to hope it will make the trip to Niflheim.

The barcode on his wrist burns at the thought. He has an ugly feeling that Niflheim holds all the answers—why he has a barcode on him, why Noctis left, why the world always seems slightly off balance.

He bites his lip then shakes his head. No. He can’t—he can’t think of that. He has to get to Niflheim and find out what’s happening. He has to.

**_Help Prince Noctis ✓_ ** _@quicksilver_

_i got some info but it’s all confidential. i’ll investigate further. wish me luck._

* * *

Niflheim’s borders are covered with guards. MTs. Prompto stops at the sight of them, suddenly uneasy. One head turns towards him, blank red eyes staring. The smooth, green face doesn’t move—but then, it can’t. It’s manufactured. Made. It’s just—it’s unnerving, how real they look. Their bodies are all the same but they’re human. It’s weird.

“Identification,” the MT says. It doesn’t sound like a question. Prompto gives it a weak smile and doesn’t answer. “Identification.”

“I—uh.” Prompto inches closer. “I’m here on Lucis’ behalf? I’m a diplomat?”

“Identification.”

“Right, machine,” he mutters, leaning in. The MTs eyes flash green.

“Identification complete. Features recognized. Welcome, N-iP01357.” The MT steps aside. 

Prompto blinks at it in surprise. “What?”

Someone comes up from behind the MT; a woman with long silver hair and sharp eyes. She takes one look at him and snorts. “How’d you get past the border? Didn’t the brat close it down so that none of you can escape?”

Prompto’s mouth dries. “I—what?”

“Come on, which one are you? Silver? Six?” At Prompto’s blank look, she hums. “Not one of the ones with s names?”

“My name’s Prompto!” he says loudly, glaring at her. “Prompto Argentum. I’m here on behalf of His Majesty, King Regis Lucis Caelum. I request you take me to the emperor.”

She blinks. “You’re kidding me. You’re that kid? The one the brat won’t stop moping about?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Prompto says in exasperation. “I was sent here to try and get some idea of what’s happening.”

“Oh shit,” she mutters, then waves at him. “Come on. You need to see the brat, if you’re here.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Prompto snaps. “Take me to the emperor.”

“Who do you think I’m talking about?” She rolls her eyes and turns on her heel. “I’m Aranea. Aranea Highwind. I’m the one who’s in charge of the military. Now follow me—unless you want to be left at the border?”

Prompto frowns at her back but follows. Two men wait next to an airship, at parade rest. “Lady A!” one shouts. “You’re back already?”

“I found something for the brat,” she says dismissively. “Get us to Gralea. How long will it take if we go at full speed?”

“Two hours, at most,” the other one says, his words slow and measured, as though he thinks it over in his head. “But probably more. We do need to go through our route.”

“Nope, going straight there. Look at the kid behind me.” Aranea jerks a thumb over her shoulder.

The one in black blinks at him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. We’re leaving. We can finish our route later. Do you really want to listen to the brat’s griping if we don’t take him straight there?”

“Hell no,” the one in white snaps. “We’re leaving. I’ve had to deal with his belly-achin’ when he goes on that stupid app. Let’s go.”

They all march onto the airship and then stare at Prompto until he follows. He does not know what’s happening. But—it’s getting him to Gralea. It’s one step closer to Noctis.

“So,” he starts, faux-casually after about thirty minutes of them just sitting in silence—well, Aranea is messing around with a phone. But the other two are just looking at him. He’s not sure if they’re blinking. “What’re your names?”

“Biggs.”

“Wedge.”

“I’m Prompto.” He smiles. “Have you heard any rumors about—um. About a prince?”

Biggs snorts. “Oh boy, have we.”

Prompto brightens. “Really? Can you tell me some of them?”

“You will see when we arrived in Gralea,” Wedge replies quietly. “It will be explained.”

Aranea laughs. “You guys are gonna kill him with anticipation, you know.”

“That’s the point, Lady A,” Biggs says. “I gotta have some kind of revenge for the last few weeks.”

Aranea grins, tossing him a water bottle. “You got that damn right.”

“Excuse me,” Prompto cuts in, irritated, “I am right here. I can hear you.”

“That’s the point,” Aranea tells him smugly. “Now shut up and sit back. We’re almost here.”

“No, we’re not,” Prompto says immediately. “You said it would take two hours.”

“And we lied,” Aranea says with the look that screams she thinks he’s an idiot. “We’re going top speed, kid. It’ll take another forty-five minutes, and I don’t really want to listen to your whining. I get enough of that at Gralea.”

Prompto scowls at her but sits back and waits. She has the same vibe as Cor, and he really doesn’t want to fuck with her. He has the feeling that she can kick his ass without even trying.

The next half hour passes in silence, Wedge dozing off and Biggs tapping his knee impatiently. Aranea pulls out a book, opening up to where a bookmark made out of a worn ribbon is. It’s a thick book, and one that seems like classical literature. She and Gladio would get along well.

Prompto just sits back and plays King’s Knight. There’s a level he’s been trying to beat for a while now, and he can’t get past it. It’s annoying. It’s a long level, too; it takes him thirty minutes to get to the boss, and he dies just as Aranea closes her book with a soft thump.

“We’re here,” she says grimly. Wedge snaps awake, looking as though he never fell asleep in the first place, and Prompto slips his phone into his pocket as Biggs stretches. Aranea glances at him. “It’ll take a minute to get the emperor. Want to stay, or want me to get you an escort?”

“Escort,” Prompto says firmly. He really hates Niflheim airships.

She snorts. “Alright, I’ll call for one.” She flicks her eyes over to Biggs. “No clones.”

“Got it, Lady A.” Biggs gives her a thumbs up before hurrying out. 

“Stay here, Biggs will be back soon. Wedge, with me.” Aranea marches out, Wedge a step behind her, and Prompto is left alone. He looks around, gets bored within about five seconds, and wanders out onto the courtyard. 

Gralea isn’t anything like the pictures Kingsglaive have managed to take. There’s color everywhere—banners of blue and yellow and red, people on the streets, no MTs lurking on the sidewalks. It looks like Insomnia. It looks like Niflheim has suddenly relaxed its iron-tight control. People look happy—they look like they’ve been given a breath of fresh air and they’re drunk on it.

The palace no longer looks like a fortress—or, well it does, but the doors are open. The windows are open. There’s warm light coming from the rooms, fires crackling merrily inside. Prompto blinks; what’s happened? Does this change have to do the sudden shift in politics?

Uneasy, he makes his way to where a garden is. It’s beautiful—made of trees with crystals made of ice hanging from the branches, bursts of colors spread across the ground. Flowers, silk, ice sculptures, statues…it’s beautiful. Nothing like what Prompto thought it would be like. There’s even a frozen pond far enough away that he can’t really see what’s around it. He turns around slowly, eyes wide. He didn’t know Niflheim could be like this.

“Do you like the flowers?” a voice asks quietly. Prompto jerks. The voice laughs; it’s soft and kind and his face burns. “I thought you would like them.”

Prompto doesn’t dare to look over his shoulder. “I—yeah. They’re pretty.”

“Good job with that sentence,” the voice says, a hand touching his back, feather-light. Prompto’s pulse is racing. He can’t speak. “Listen, I—oh no. No! NO—OH, COME ON!”

Prompto whirls around to see a figure race towards the pond, ears ringing, and watches as they fall to their knees and shove their arm into the water. “LET MY LURE GO!”

Prompto can’t help it; he starts to laugh as he walks over. The man sits back on his heels, glowering down at the ice. “Dammit,” he curses. “That was my good lure!”

“You good there, buddy?” Prompto laughs, crouching beside him. “I mean, you probably have more lures, right?”

“That was my tonberry one, though,” he groans, then looks at him. He blinks. Prompto blinks back.

“Noctis?” he yelps, falling back. Noctis’s eyes widen.

“Prompto?” he shouts back. “What—what’re you doin’ here?”

“What are you doing here?!” Prompto stands, wiping snow off his clothes. “You’re supposed to be in Insomnia!”

“I had to leave!”

“That doesn’t explain anything!”

“I—“

“Your Majesty, a diplomat from Lucis is here—“

Both of them stop at the servant’s voice. Noctis’ eyes go to him and Prompto’s does the same.

“You’re emperor?!”

“You’re a diplomat from Lucis?!”

* * *

Noctis doesn’t know what is happening. He really, truly doesn’t, but seeing Prompto is—it’s fucking him up. He straightens, pulling on the air of authority Ignis pushed onto him, and says, very calmly, “I will be there in a moment. Please get Savis and bring him to the throne room.”

Alexander bows once. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Prompto grabs his arm. “Dude, what the hell?”

_(“Dude, what the hell?” Prompto laughs, hugging a pillow to his chest. Noctis sticks his tongue out at him, trying to concentrate on the game. It’s old and glitchy, and Noctis fucking hates it, but Prompto told him there was no way he could beat his high score, and he is nothing if not competitive._

_“Shut up,” Noctis grouses. “This piece of shit game is against me!”_

_“Don’t call Leviathan’s Mission a piece of shit!” Prompto smacks his arm. “It’s a beautiful, amazing game that—“_

_“That was rated one of the worst games of the year?”_

_“Shut up!”)_

“I’ll explain later,” Noctis murmurs, trying not to become overwhelmed at the sudden onslaught of memories. “Just—follow me. Please. There’s a lot that’s happened, and I can’t have my authority be questioned. I just got the nobles under control.”

“Noctis—“

He shakes his head. “Please. Trust me.”

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Niflheim descends into civil war. They need a strong, stable leader, and Noctis may not be the best choice for it, but he’s the only option they have. The nobles of Niflheim are power-hungry, and greedy; Noctis doesn’t trust them at all. If he gives an inch, they will take a mile. He cannot let himself be seen as _weak._

He’s started drafting a treaty. He just needs more time.

“...Okay.” Prompto lets go of his arm. “Okay. I get it. Tell me what’s going on, okay? You can’t exactly rule Niflheim and be the heir of Lucis, y’know?”

Noctis snorts. “I know.”

He just has to wait until Niflheim doesn’t need him, until he can badger Aranea into becoming regent until Solara is old enough. He really wants to go home.

~~(But where is home, now? A ruined city? A car roaming the world? What is home?)~~

He leaves Prompto to wait in the hallway in front of the throne room, and hurries to his own room. Or, rather, the room where he changed from his stifling clothes into something more casual. He opens the door, eyes peeled for any clone, then quickly shuts it. Right as he starts taking his coat off, a child slams into his leg. Noctis looks down then sighs fondly.

“What are you doing, Snowdrop?” he asks, leaning down and picking him up. Snowdrop wraps his arms around his neck and wrinkles his nose. Noctis bounces him a bit. “Come on, what’s wrong?”

“...Jas was bein’ mean.”

“How so?”

“He was—he was sayin’ that you were gonna leave!” Snowdrop wails. “And—and—“

“Calm down,” Noctis tells him, brushing blond hair out of his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, not anytime soon. What else did he say?”

“That—that someone like us was here. He looks like Sav’!”

“I know he does, that’s why I’m in here. I need to get dressed for Court.” Noctis laughs, setting the boy down on the floor.

“I don’t like Court,” Snowdrop mutters mutinously, eyes narrowed. Noctis chuckles, brushing a hand over his soft hair, and grabs the boots he threw away an hour ago.

“No one does,” he replies. “But it’s required.” He pauses. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Why don’t you go wait in the throne room? You and your brothers.”

“Okay,” Snowdrop agrees immediately, running out the door. Noctis watches him go, then shakes his head and hurries to get dressed. As much as he loves the little terrors he saved from the labs, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have other responsibilities.

Once he’s dressed in thick robes of white with red curling over his shoulders and gold inching up his legs. He secures the metal arm braces, affixes the collar around his throat, shoves his feet into his boots, and looks in the mirror. His hair is a mess. He scowls at his reflection, running a hand through it to try and make it a little more presentable. And—just like that, he isn’t Noctis anymore. He’s Emperor Noctis Caelum, the one who overthrew the corrupt leader and is leading Niflheim to a new beginning. He takes a deep breath, then walks out of the room and makes his way to the throne room.

“Welcoming, his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Noctis Caelum!” his announces shouts, and he can hear the human guards snapping to attention. Noctis grimaces, then smooths it into a blank face. 

“At ease,” he says as he sits. “I hear there is someone from Lucis in the palace?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” a guard says with a bow. She hesitates. “He looks like your wards, sir.”

Noctis taps the arms of the throne. “I see. Send him in.”

The doors open and Prompto steps through, every inch a Lucian diplomat. Noctis looks down at him from the throne, dressed in Niflheim colors but with Lucian blood, while Prompto looks up at him, dressed in Lucian colors but with Niflheim blood. There’s an ocean of difference between them, he realizes suddenly, and how that aches. Even before, they had common ground. They were both citizens of Lucis. But now…now there is nothing.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Prompto says, tone respectful as he sinks into a bow. He looks as beautiful as ever; hair like spun gold, eyes bright…even the clones who are the same age as him don’t manage to hold a candle to him. “I am Prompto Argentum. I come on behalf of His Majesty, King Regis Lucis Caelum.”

“Ambassador Argentum,” Noctis drawls without a hint of care at his father’s name. “What brings you to Niflheim?”

“King Regis was simply concerned about the political changes.” Prompto straightens and looks him in the eyes. “I see he was right to be worried.”

Noctis digs his nails into his thigh. “And how does the internal politics of Niflheim affect Lucis? We have retreated; we have given you your land back.”

“That,” Prompto says shortly, “is not what is happening. Niflheim has a new ruler; that inevitably changes global politics. If you would forgive my impudence, I would say that with you on the throne, Your Imperial Majesty, the politics of Niflheim greatly affects Lucis.”

Noctis stands, heart in his throat. He knew that this was a wager—one that would backfire on him. But he did what he had to do. He hides his fist in the folds of his robes and growls out, “Leave us.”

“Your Grace,” a guard says, stepping forward, and Noctis shakes his head.

“Now.”

They leave, looking back over their shoulders. He is beloved by them; they treat him as though he is a god. It is exhausting.

Once the doors shut, Noctis falls back onto the throne. Savis creeps through the side door, one that will only answer to MTs, and hurries over. He’s dressed in formal robes, too, which is probably what took him so long.

“Noct?” he asks, hands hovering over his arm. Noctis smiles, pulling him in for a hug and kissing his head.

“I’m fine. Where’s your brothers?”

“Coming,” Savis says solemnly. A man of few words, Savis is. “Who is he?”

“Prompto,” Noctis says on a breath, then looks over at his best friend. Prompto is staring at Savis with a mixture of terror and horror in equal measure, and his hand is gripping his wrist. Where his barcode is. “Prompto, it’s okay.”

“How is this okay?” he hisses. “You’re the emperor of Niflheim, there’s a guy who looks exactly like me, and—“

“Noct!”

“Noctis!”

“We’re here, we’re here! What do you want?”

Prompto flinches, retreating in the face of fifteen children crowding the throne. They all look like he did when he was younger, Noctis knows. He isn’t sure how to tell him that most of the clones just didn’t survive being freed. He doesn’t know how to say that there are twenty babies that are somehow still alive. He can’t figure out how to get the fact that there are thirty other clones in Tenebrae under the care of Ravus, because he can’t trust anyone else with their safety.

“Guys,” he says, “this is Prompto. You remember what I told you?”

Luke wrinkles his nose at him before turning around. “Hi,” he says duly. “I’m Luke. You’re the guy Noctis won’t ever shut up about.”

“Luke,” Noctis groans even as his horde of children giggle. “Don’t expose me like this.”

“You’re the one who cries into your wine,” Luke tells him loftily, grabbing Levi (named after Leviathan, because for some unknown reason he decided Leviathan is his favorite Astral) and walking away. They’re going to plan mischief, Noctis just knows it.

“Shut up!” he shouts at their backs anyway. Luke only flips him off. How did he ever manage to raise such a rude little shit.

Wait. He knows. _Biggs._

“You—what? What’s happening.” Prompto takes a step back, arms held in front of him in an x. “Time out. Explain.”

“That’s going to take a while.” Noctis winces. He knows that tone of voice; it means that Prompto is pissed the hell off. He fears that tone like no other (except maybe Ignis).

“I have a month,” Prompto says flatly. “Start talking.”

And he could never refuse Prompto. Not back then, not now, not even in the future. Noctis takes a deep breath, grips Savis’ hand tight, and begins.

* * *

So. Apparently Prompto is a clone. That’s—cool. And apparently Noctis freed all the clones in Niflheim. That’s good.

Also, _also_ apparently, they were all supposed to turn into MTs. That is not so good.

“Okay,” Prompto murmurs, sitting on the floor with a mini-me asleep on his lap. Noctis sits across from him, five kids crowded around him and a baby in his arms. “So. That’s it, huh.”

“Yeah,” Noctis says, sounding relieved that he didn’t freak out. Fucking dammit, he looks even better than Prompto ever imagined he would. What the fuck.

He’s kind of angry about that. Noctis has ruined him for literally anyone else. If this relationship doesn’t pan out the way Prompto wants it to, he will be single forever. And _that_ would suck.

“I just—I couldn’t leave them there, you know?” Noctis tucks a strand of hair behind a small ear. “They’re humans.”

Godsdammit, he’s so nice. Prompto is having a _crisis._

“Yeah,” he says instead. “I—listen. Why didn’t you come home?”

“I couldn’t. Imagine if I did come home; what would happen? I would never be able to leave. I would be trapped inside the Wall forever as my father searched for an enemy that didn’t exist. I left of my own accord. I had things I needed to do.”

“Like overthrowing a despot?” Prompto says dryly. Noctis gives him a wry grin.

“Yes, like that.” He sighs. “I can’t leave here. I want to go home but—“

“But Niflheim needs you,” Prompto finishes. He leans back on his hands. “Well, I guess that settles it.”

“Settles what?” Noctis asks, looking concerned. Prompto laughs at him.

“I’m staying until you can come home,” he says cheerfully. “Can’t let you out of my sight now, dude!”

Noctis freezes, then smiles. His eyes are so warm that Prompto thinks that he can feel the heat from four feet away. He takes off his robe and makes a small bed before waving Prompto over. “Come here.”

“Why?” he asks, although he’s already doing it. He sets the kid down, using his jacket as a pillow and scoots closer. Noctis’ hand grabs him by the collar, pulls him in, and then—

Oh. _Oh._

Noctis is kissing him. This is, actually, Prompto’s first kiss so he doesn’t exactly know what to do with his hands, but this is _not_ Noctis’ first rodeo, something of which Prompto is suddenly incredibly grateful for, because he’s itching to do— _something._ He doesn’t know what that something is, but he wants to do it.

Where did Noctis learn to kiss like this?

Maybe Michael. The thought makes anger and bitterness curl in his stomach but then Noctis pulls back, giving him one last peck on the lips, and he’s smiling. All thoughts of Michael leaves his mind.

“If you’re staying,” Noctis says, cheeks flushed a pretty pink, and Prompto wants to kiss him again _so badly,_ “then you’ll need a room.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Prompto says without thinking, then his face burns. “I—I mean.”

Noctis laughs. “Alright. Hope you don’t mind kids. They always manage to get into my bed, no matter when I go to sleep.”

“I don’t,” Prompto says, mind racing. Will he become a father figure to his fellow clones? Perhaps. Will he regret it? No. He smiles at Noctis, delighting in the way his eyes widen and he has to turn away. No, he _definitely_ will not regret this.

He is, after all, with Noctis. How could he have any regrets?

**Author's Note:**

> Link for the [art!](https://byeke.tumblr.com/post/630196393837019136/time-to-show-off-the-promptis-big-bang-piece-i) I finally got my hands on a computer! 
> 
> There's this one speech by alan watts that really stuck with me when I was writing this--Falling In Love. Love is an act of surrender. And that really seems to fit this fic, doesn't it? I really recommend you listen to it! It makes you think.


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